


some things never sleep (blood is running deep)

by niniadepapa



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, the divorced!au nobody asked for but i insisted on writing anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niniadepapa/pseuds/niniadepapa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only times she had heard from Killian had been when Kristoff would bring a package with a letter from him for Henry on his birthday. Emma had never asked him how Killian managed to get them in time or how he contacted him. She was better not knowing, anyway.</p><p>He hadn’t missed one of Henry’s birthdays since the day he left.</p><p>Oh, and the divorce papers. That had been all the only correspondence she and Killian had shared in the past three years.</p><p>Nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sorrow that you keep

**Author's Note:**

> it's au week and i have been in a writing funk for a while for various reasons but i couldn't let go of my and cee's dreams of angsty special divorced!au because we are ansgt whores and it's not our fault okay  
> also included on that category go read sandy's (loganmars) titled 'i wish you would' because it is actual perfection kay thankx bye

As she semi-stumbled through the restaurant’s doors, she asked herself for the tenth time that night why she had thought wearing those heels had been a good idea. She usually wasn’t this klutz on platforms, but her shift at the station had been _insane._ If she were being completely honest, instead of dressing up and meeting her boyfriend she’d have paid good money to crawl into bed with her son and sleep for a hundred years.

She caught Walsh’s eye at their usual table at the back, the cozy lights behind him making his hair shine like a halo, and she let out a half disappointed-half relieved sigh. Too late to run now.

Letting the maitre take her coat, she made her way towards him, pecking his cheek softly. “Sorry I’m late - things are crazy at the station.”

“That case again?” His voice tinged with worry, and she unceremoniously sank on her chair, groaning quietly at the stretch of her sore muscles.

“Yeah, I don’t know what the hell they’re planning now.”

Walsh smiled softly at her over the table. “It’s okay. Now, let’s get you something to drink and hopefully something a bit more refined than a grilled cheese for a change.”

“Hey, don’t hate on the grilled cheese,” she warned, too tired to even look menacing, even though he caught the threat in her expression, quickly putting his hands up in surrender.

“I’d never. I like my head where it is.”

“A really wise attitude that I commend you for.”

He raised his glass, inclining his head in acknowledgement and never tearing his eyes from her. “To us.”

Gulping loudly, she clinked her wine with his. “To us.”

After a quick order - they had come so many times to this place it was difficult not to go for the usual - he reclined on his seat, his lips quirking as he drank her in. “So. Apart from the case from hell at the station, how’s the family?”

Her hand automatically flew to her hair - a sign of how the mention of her family sparked the innate urge to _tear it out of her scalp_. Anna and Krisotff’s approaching wedding had turned their quiet lives into a - dare she say - actual nightmare. “Driving me completely nuts. If someone had told me Anna would be this batshit crazy about wedding dresses and the chocolate fondue she wants to have at the reception, I’d have fled somewhere far, far away from here and just showed up for the date.” She smiled sadly, shaking her head. “The pre wedding is always a disaster.”

She belatedly realized her hand was trembling lightly over her napkin, and she gripped it and set it over her lap because no, just _no_. She wasn’t going to let memories of her own pre-wedding ruin her date.

“Sounds fun,” Walsh commented with a laugh.

“Not really. Elsa’s way better at handling all of it, I get too fed up when they can’t agree on the mantelpieces or the flowers.”

(She didn’t comment on how it also got to be too much sometimes - how she faked a mental breakdown over Anna’s incessant chatter and instead went outside of whatever bridal shop or restaurant they were trying that day because she needed some air, wishing for a cigarette and damning herself for quitting years earlier.) (Three years, actually.) (Not that she was counting.)

“What about your mom?”

That made her genuinely smile, despite her bitter thoughts. “She’s having a blast going over the cake planning. It’s like they gave her a gift, by hiring her to do that for the reception.” She grinned at him over her glass. “My family consists of a bunch of nerds, in case you couldn’t tell.”

He smiled softly. “Well, I do love your family. Just as I love you.”

“Keep it up, and you may find yourself lucky tonight, Mr. Green,” she whispered, her foot tapping his softly under the table and giggling at the flush on his cheeks.

Playing footsie in your early thirties was even more entertaining than when in high school.  

Meals finished, she was already protesting against the dessert Walsh had ordered for them to share when his face turned serious and she unconsciously straightened in her seat. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something,” he announced.

“Okay. Spill.”

He fiddled with his tie - one that she had given him for Christmas, actually - and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped loudly the rest of his wine. “Remember what I said earlier? About loving your family and you?”

That queasy feeling in her gut that sometimes rushed through her when bad news were about to be delivered started at the pit of her stomach, and her hands clasped over her lap. “Yeah.”

“Well… Here goes nothing.” He span their dessert plate towards her, and the shiny wink from a ring set over the china glinted mockingly at her. She expected herself to make some kind of noise - a surprised gasp, a squeal, _anything_ \- but instead sat completely frozen, staring at the diamond surrounded by crême brulée and syrup.

“Emma, I love you, I love Henry, and I love our life together. And if you let me, I’d love to formally be a part of your family.”

Her mouth opened, but yet again nothing came out. He looked at her expectantly, the hopefulness that had clouded his expression earlier sobering at her reaction - or lack of thereof. “So. What do you say?”

And finally - _finally_ \- she spoke.

“I need a cigarette,” she rasped, and fled the restaurant.

(And _no,_ she was not thinking of her first - and until then - only proposal.)

* * *

_“I have no idea why you insist on leaving your goddamn things all over the place - no wonder you can’t find them anywhere when you actually_ need _them.”_

_Killian’s answering muttering was becoming exponentially more annoying. “Not helping, love.”_

_“I’m just saying, things would go way smoother if you just did things properly,” she pointed out, following him around as he opened and closed drawers, picking stray pieces of clothing from the ground and inspecting their pockets and swearing every time he found himself empty-handed - except for the twenty bill he found inside a jacket._

_Lucky asshole._

_He turned towards her with a frown. “Oh, so now leaving my keys in the pot by the door is considered ‘doing things properly’?”_

_“Yes,” she confirmed haughtily, crossing her arms over her chest. He huffed and turned to his treasure hunt like a madman on a mission._

_“Well, maybe I’ll add to that list how you should refill the water bottle in the fridge.”_

_She narrowed her eyes, still following him around. “Or lowering the goddamn toilet’s lid.”_

_“Or not hogging the blankets like a possessed woman,” he tossed over his shoulder as he looked under their bed. Emma gritted her teeth._

_“Or showing up at the restaurant at the time we had actually reserved instead of an hour later because someone let Will fucking Scarlet drag him for pints.”_

_“Or letting your best friend borrow our key so she can show up in the middle of the night because she had a fight with Humbert.”_

_“Or screaming at the soccer match like a madman in front of my_ very _impressionable kid.”_

 _“Or how your lad asked if I was ever going to pop the question - and it’s called_ football _, Swan.”_

_She froze in her tracks, floored to notice that the both of them were breathing raggedly and had found themselves practically screaming at each other’s faces._

_Even more belatedly, she caught up on what he had just said to her._

_“Well, maybe you should do it!” She exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air, and he mimicked her._

_“Fine! Maybe I will!”_

_“Maybe you shouldn’t!”_

_“Maybe I won’t!”_

_“Fine by me!”_

_“Emma,” he suddenly said, and her heart stuttered against her ribcage at the sudden nervous edge to his voice and worried lines around his eyes, and she forgot how they’d gotten to the middle of their living room, with Henry’s toys and school books at the table and the picture of their first date over the mantle and the music from her laptop still playing from their bedroom._

_Because, as it turned out, she only wanted him to ask her one thing._

_“What?”_

_“Marry me?”_

_And that was it._

_Throwing her head back and huffing as loudly as she could, she gave him a hopelessly fake chagrined look and declared the two words that every aspiring fiancé ever wants to hear._

_“Ugh. Fine.”_

_And threw herself at him so they toppled on the couch, a shocked gasp of delight and surprise leaving him as she leaned over him, tugging him by the collar of his shirt with a jerk and kissing the hell out of her fiancé. He tasted like coffee and smoke, and she never wanted to let him go._

_“Weren’t you in a hurry?” she murmured against his lips, her own curving into a smirk as she wiggled over him and not even bothering to hide her satisfied expression at his groan._

_“Screw them. It can wait until tomorrow.”_

_She pulled back an inch to eye him, raising an eyebrow defiantly. “Really? I may keep you here.”_

_His groan got muffled against her chest as he nosed the skin over her breasts, sucking it lightly in sloppy wet bites. “Bloody hell.”_

_“Henry’s not coming home from soccer practice for a while. We have-”_

_“-two hours tops, I know.” He bit her neck playfully and she giggled - hey, she was engaged, she was_ allowed _to, - tugging his hand in hers and softly biting the tip of his finger in retaliation. He honest to God wheezed quietly, and his voice came out strained. “And it’s_ football _, Swan, how many times do I have to tell you?”_

 _She crawled on top of him until she was straddling his hips, hovering over his lying form on the couch. “At least once more,” she warned, but couldn’t add anything else, as he quickly stood and flipped them until he could pick her up and carry her over his shoulder. She squealed, for once ignoring her usual ‘don’t bother the neighbors’ rule because, hey, she_ was _engaged; and laughed breathlessly as he practically threw her on the bed and proceeded to celebrate their brand new engagement._

_(Two hours later, when Henry got home from soccer - football - whatever, - practice, the two of them still a little flushed and with a serious case of bedhair and feeling a little too much like a couple of horny teenagers caught in the act, they decided it was occasion for a second celebration.)_

__

* * *

**  
** “ _‘I need a cigarette?’_ Are you out of your goddamn mind?” **  
**

Ruby’s alarmingly loud screeches combined with the static of her crappy Skype connection - she _really_ had to have a nice chat with her neighbor to check if he was indeed stealing her wifi - was giving her a headache.

“It just slipped out okay?”

Elsa, always the appeaser, shushed Ruby and turned to her - or rather to her screen. “Well, what happened after that?”

“Did you actually smoke one?” Ruby inquired before Emma could answer, and Elsa clucked her tongue.

“Ruby, priorities.”

“Don’t even. I had to put up with grumpy Swan for months through the withdrawals while you were in Iceland.”

Elsa rolled her eyes. “Whatever. So. What happened?”

“Did you run away?” Ruby asked, and Emma visibly winced.

“Ouch. Low blow, Ruby.”

“Hey, it’s your customized move, don’t go blaming me.”

Because of course that was what her friends would think happened.

(...nevermind it was what actually, _for real_ happened. That was completely besides the point)

She rubbed her temples tiredly, eyeing the clock on her screen with a frown and wondering when Henry would be home so she could have an excuse to flee this conversation. She knew she had to have it, because best friends share everything and all that, but... yeah. Not really having the time of her life explaining how she had left her boyfriend in a restaurant with an untouched ring on the table as she ran to the nearest open store to buy cigarettes.

Except it didn’t exactly go as planned.

“He followed me outside and I, very calmly, told him that he had caught me by surprise and that I had to think about it.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Ruby shook her head with a sigh. “I hope he paid or you won’t ever be welcome again in that place, and the risotto is to _die_ for.”

Emma huffed a laugh, but silently agreed.

“Poor guy,” Elsa added biting her lip, and Emma bristled, because _of course_ the bleeding hearts passing as her friends would go all ‘awww poor Walsh’.

“Poor guy? What about me? You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“If you had proposed and he had told you he needed time, we would be comforting you,” Ruby stated matter-of-factly.

Plopping further down on her couch - the one where she had pinned Killian down after accepting the lamest proposal ever years before - she hid her face under her palm.

“Has anybody considered I am not ready for this?”

They were silent for a moment, and for a brief moment Emma thought her connection had finally snapped and cut the conversation short, but then she heard Elsa’s soothing voice - the one she used when she was trying to reason with her or calm her down. “Of course we do. Come on, Emma, we know this isn’t easy for you.”

“We’re not completely heartless,” Ruby added, and Emma peeked from behind her fingers to see them staring apprehensively at her, and that warm feeling that spread through her whenever she realized how lucky she was for having such great - albeit maddening - friends made her burrow her nose in her cushion, hiding a small smile.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she grumped against the cloth.  

Ruby winked, stifling a giggle, but Elsa’s face remained troubled. “Emma? Is it - I mean - does this have anything to do with You-Know-Who?”

“He has a name, you know,” she mumbled, and ignored the look that her friends shared.

“And you cringe every time you hear it, you know.”

“No, it has nothing to do with him,” she said, resolutely crossing her arms and glaring at them, daring them to contradict her.

(They did.)

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“100% sure?”

“Stop being annoying.”

The crackling over the line overpowering the silence once more, they stayed silent, and Emma knew they were waiting for a reaction from her. It was always like this with them: if Emma had something on her mind that she wouldn’t admit even under the threat of torture, Ruby and Elsa would always manage to let her ramble and deflect for as long as she wanted until she finally -  finally - caved.

And cave she did.

“I had never planned on… on doing this. Again. It just - I didn’t even know Walsh was considering it. We’re fine as we are right now. Why does he feel the need to swap rings and vows? Why do things have to change? Everything’s good as it is. What more is there?”

Ruby pursed her lips, eyeing her consideringly. “Well, what made you want to change things with K-You Know Who?”

Emma sank back on the couch, memories of that day in that very same room flashing in front of her eyes - the excited thrumming through her body at the idea, the anxious anticipation to his question, the pure joy exuding through every cell of her body. “Honestly? I don’t even know. It just felt right at the time.”

“And with Walsh, it doesn’t?” Elsa inquired tentatively.

Emma bit her lip, considering the truth bomb she had just been delivered. “It’s not the same. Nothing is the same, I guess.”

And it truly wasn’t. She had had a long time to come to peace with her time with Killian, with how it all started, grew and finally ended, and the heartbreaking process of trying to purge her feeling for him after they were done. She had had time to compare how her relationship with Walsh differed from hers with her ex husband, how not alike they were, both as individuals and as partners for her and Henry. She had come to the conclusion that different was good, because being with someone who reminded her of Killian wouldn’t help her at all. Different was great, different was ace, sign her up; but…

...but this hadn’t felt right, and that was just the thing.

She missed the shared glance between her two closest friends through the screen, but was brought back to the present when she saw them waving their hands in the air over their heads. To someone else, they probably looked like idiots. To Emma, they still looked like idiots, but for a good cause.

“Guys, stop it,” she protested, but they just ignored her and came closer to their laptop cameras, hands waving in big, sweeping motions. She huffed a laugh.

“I don’t need my aura fluffed.”

“You definitely do, now shut up and let us do our work,” Ruby snapped, and Elsa uh-huhed.

“And it’s a virtual aura fluff, so, there.”

She made a strangled noise from the back of her throat, letting them go on with it. She’d much rather take something as silly and pointless as having her aura fluffed than hearing encouraging and equally pointless words. Luckily her friends knew that.

“Mom?”

The three of them turned their attention towards the sound, even though only Emma could actually see her son standing at the door, backpack hanging from one shoulder and wet hair sticking to his forehead. “Oops. Preteen presence alert,” Ruby declared with a pout. Emma gave her a warning look, shaking her head.

“I’ll talk to you later guys.”

“Don’t forget to wear the clutch I lent you tomorrow night!” Ruby insisted before she logged off, waving her warning away with a blown kiss to the screen. She closed her laptop and looked back at Henry, who had already run to his room to leave his backpack and come back to the kitchen to open the fridge. The kid was growing like a week, all lanky limbs and boney knees, and she mentally reminded herself to go clothes shopping that week. At least his suit for the wedding would actually fit him.

“Hey kid.”

Coke can in his hand, he plopped down beside her, taking a sip and offering it to her afterwards. “How was your date?”

“It went… fine,” she tried, fingering the edge of the can and avoiding his eyes. She needn’t have bothered: her son just laughed under his breath, leaning his head on her shoulder.

“That bad, huh?”

“It wasn’t bad,” she protested, and to her relief he just shrugged. It was both a welcome and unwelcome reaction, she wondered: there had been a time where Henry had been pushy and worried beyond reason about her love life, especially after what happened with Killian. The fact that he didn’t seem to freak out about it anymore could mean two things: one, he was confident about her relationship with Walsh; two, he thought she was hopeless.

She didn’t know which one was scarier.

“Grandma called by the way.”

“Oh. What did she want?”

“She didn’t say.”

She frowned. That wasn’t like Ingrid - at all. “That’s weird.”

“Yeah.” He finished his coke and slouched back on the couch, this time picking up a fallen cushion and setting it over her legs to use as a pillow. She ran her fingers through his hair, still marvelled at how she had given birth to such a perfect thing.

Fuck Neal and his empty promises, indeed, but at least he had given her Henry.

She kissed the top of his head, picking the remote up from the low table and turning on the TV. She flipped through the channels disinterestedly for a while until the sight of a familiar ship and a catchy soundtrack caught her attention, and she stiffened against her will.

(Pirates of the Caribbean had always been their family thing.)

She also noticed how Henry’s breath caught for a moment, and her heart went out for him. It hadn’t just been her who had been heartbroken over her failed marriage. She had lost a husband, but Henry had lost a father. “You want me to change it?”

His voice caught. “No, it’s okay. It’s been a while.”

She dropped another kiss, on his forehead this time, and murmured, “I know” before turning up the volume.

And, as was customary in their family tradition, they fell asleep together, the banging metals from the theme music in the credits awakening them with a start before dragging their feet to bed.

* * *

**  
** Anna bounced up and down on her silver heels when she saw her and Henry stepping into the hall. “Hey, you made it!” **  
**

“As if we had any way to miss this,” she said, sounding more reproachful than she actually felt. She hugged her sister, kissing her cheek briefly and careful not to ruin her makeup. “You look beautiful.”

Someone cleared their throat obnoxiously loud at their right, and she rolled her eyes as she pulled back from Anna. “So do you, Kristoff.”

Her future brother-in-law grinned widely. “Thanks, sis.” He turned to Henry then, clapping him on the shoulder warmly. “Looking sharp, young man.”

Her son shrugged, as if he wasn’t really convinced but didn’t actually care if he did look fine or not. She smiled fondly. Kids. “Mom said the handkerchief was a must.” He scrunched up his nose, and corrected himself. “Well, Ruby made mom say it.”

“I’m not the least bit surprised,” Kristoff said, sending her a wink over Henry’s head. She ignored them altogether, waving them goodbye and maneuvering them through the throngs of people reunited for the rehearsal dinner. She had warned her sister that these things were actually stupid, because no matter how many times you rehearsed something, anything could happen the W day, so why bother?

Anna and Elsa hadn’t been really impressed with her.

Oh, well. At least there was lobster and she got to mingle with her friends, family and acquaintances who clearly didn’t know how tsop stop drinking for special occasions even if they tried such as Will Scarlet.

Someone poked her side and she jumped, glaring at Graham as he grinned impishly. “You clean up nice, Swan.”

She patted her skirt self-consciously and then gave him the once-over, her hand automatically flying to fix his tie with a sharp tug and trying not to laugh at the choking sound he made. “Thank you very much. You don’t look half bad yourself.”

“Where’s your date?” he asked with an expression that said he was aware he was stirring trouble but couldn’t help it. Emma rolled her eyes.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know his name.”

“It’s not like I care or anything.”

“Play nice, Graham.” Ruby looped her arm through her boyfriend’s, leaning her head on his arm, and Emma had to grit her teeth at the disgustingly spectacle the two were offering. After their scheduled minute of couple-y moony faces, Ruby looked back at her and frowned. “Where is Walsh, though?”

If it were possible, her teeth gritted even harder. “He had some last minute stuff at the shop and couldn’t get in time.”

Both of her friends canted their heads in a disturbingly similar way at the same exact time. “Ohhhh.”

“What ooooh?”

A perfectly penciled eyebrow flew up Ruby’s forehead. “I don’t know, is this his way of giving you the cold shoulder for turning down his proposal?”

Graham choked on his champagne. “He proposed?” Ruby swatted at his arm at the same time that Emma tried to no avail to make him lower his voice. He ignored them, excitement plastered all over his face. “And you said no?” She was left unable to answer when his arms went around her, hugging her to his chest as he tearfully stated, “I knew you’d make me proud.”

She pulled back from him, slapping his arm immediately after. “I didn’t technically turn it down, I just asked for some time to think about it.”

“Okay. Think about it for a bit with me: No.”

She gave him a deadpanned look. “You’re hilarious.” She sighed, because as much as they made fun of the situation, the reality was that Walsh and a lot of her friends hadn’t really clicked.

And that was another huge factor in the ‘why doesn’t it feel right to say yes to Walsh’ big scale of things.

“Look, I know that you don’t particularly like Walsh…” she started.

“I am not particularly able to stand the guy, but sure, whatever.”

“...but you have to accept that you’re biased.”

He fake gasped, putting a hand over his chest dramatically. “Emma, you know I’m taken, and I’m most definitely not interested in the wanker.”

She couldn’t help it - she laughed. “You’re an idiot.” Pointing a finger in his direction, she threatened, “You should give up while you’re at it.”

“I just want what’s best for you. We all do. And Walsh - I’m sorry, he doesn’t seem like he’s it for you.”

The corner of her lips lit up in a sad smile, Sweet, marshmallow Graham, with his cheesy pick up lines and sweet tooth. They hooked up once in freshman year, but agreed later on that they were better off as friends. It had certainly had their benefits, considering how both of them eventually fell for the other’s best friend.

“Maybe there is no it for me. Maybe it’s just Henry and me, and someone who is okay with it.”

He gave her a look. “That’s just sad.”

“I’m sad. I’m the Grinch.”

He softly pushed her towards the bar. “Go have a drink or something, you’re depressing me.”

Mockingly saluting him and spinning on her heel, she did just that, opting for a white wine that she had chosen along with Elsa for the reception. She sipped it slowly, savoring it, and went on to try a piece of rolled salmon that was just begging for her to take it. Moaning softly at the taste, she almost missed her mother, who appeared out of thin air in quite the white sparkly number. She gasped as she saw her, her very own established ‘I can’t believe my baby girl looks this pretty’ look, and opened her arms to hug her. “Oh, Emma.”

“Mom you look hot. A little too much cleavage, maybe, but… hot.”

Looking pleased as punch, she rearranged her hair, but quickly was all business, taking her hand in hers and dragging her towards the least crowded part of the room, at the entrance doors. “I have to talk to you.”

Emma frowned. “Is this about what you called me for last night? What is it?”

Ingrid clasped her hands together, pursing her lips worriedly, and alarm bells started ringing in Emma’s head. “I didn’t want you to freak out, so…”

Emma never found out what came after that, as her senses acted on their own to recognize someone behind her.

First it was his scent - the smell of leather and coffee heavy on the air. Second was the touch of his hand barely touching her, just moving a strand of her hair until his lips were barely hovering over her shoulder. Third was the sound of his voice, as he said in her ear, “Hello, beautiful.”

And finally, finally, he stepped around her and she laid eyes on her ex husband after three years of him walking out on her.

(The worst of all?) (Fifth: she could actually taste him on her tongue, even after all of those years.)

Everything slowed down around her, the voices, the low music and the glass clinking drowning into white noise. She could see the mix of emotions swirling in his eyes - hope, regret, lust, longing, wariness, worry. She could only guess what her own face looked like, because as much as she had imagined this encounter in her head night after night, alone in their formerly shared bed, she couldn’t for the life of her think of anything to say.

Probably anything except for what she actually said.

“I need to pee.”

 

She had been hiding in the restroom a total of two minutes and thirty six seconds - not that she was counting - when Ruby and Elsa stormed inside. “‘I need to pee’? Your verbal diarrhea is starting to worry us, just saying.”

“What the hell was that?” Emma said, voice trembling with rage.

“What the hell was what?”

“What the hell is he doing here?”

The door opened, and Emma’s heart jumped against her ribcage, panic seizing her as she pictured him getting in to try to talk to her. Instead, Anna sneaked inside, heels clicking against the linoleum as she ran towards them excitedly. “Oh, I thought I saw you guys running here. This is so exciting. What are we talking about?”

Emma’s hands flew to her hips as she scowled at her. “About what a backstabbing kind of a monster my sister is for not telling me my ex husband would attend her wedding?”

Anna gave her an affronted look, lips turned down in a pout. “Hey, no badmouthing the bride. Those are the rules.”

Emma huffed, covering her face with her shaking hands as she paced around. She walked to the sink and splashed water on her face, imperiously rubbing her cheeks and the back of her neck, ignoring Ruby’s protest about her make up. She looked up in the mirror to find Elsa staring worriedly at her. “I promise I didn’t know,” she said. Ruby nodded.

“Neither did I.” Noticing Emma’s dubious look, Ruby lifted her arms in despair. “You know I couldn’t have kept that truth bomb from you even if I tried.”

Finally, Emma’s eyes landed on Anna, who for once seemed a bit sheepish. “We just found out yesterday, actually. He never answered our invitation - apparently he didn’t see it until he came back to London this past week, and he didn’t want us to count with him just in case he couldn’t get time off and clear his schedule for this week.”

Emma leaned against the back of the sink, fingers gripping the cold porcelain to try to anchor herself in some way after her world had been flipped inside out with just two words. So Killian had been away. She had guessed that much; it wasn’t likely for him to have stayed in Boston after the divorce: even if the town was big enough for the both of them, they would have run into each other eventually, and her friends surely would have mentioned it no matter what. She hadn’t thought he’d go back to London, though. He had told her more than once how there was nothing left for him there, just memories of a broken childhood, heartbreak and four graves to visit.

Cold tendrils of hurt spread through her chest, quietly making their way to her heart, crushing it with the overwhelming revelation. Did he really need to put that much space between them that he would be tempted to go back there? An entire ocean and some more?

Not even three years of radio silence and the ghost of his presence at their house stopped the pain to radiate at the thought. The only times she had heard from Killian had been when Kristoff would bring a package with a letter from him for Henry on his birthday. Emma had never asked him how Killian managed to get them in time or how he contacted him. She was better not knowing, anyway. The same happened when Henry had asked her if she wanted to read the letter with him: she had declined the offer with a sad smile, telling him to go and open his present and not to worry about her.  

She hadn’t received a single thing for her birthday, so it wasn’t like she expected to find anything for her in the letter.

She kind of appreciated it, actually: knowing that he had something to say to her but choosing to write it instead of confronting her about it before he left would have been too upsetting.

He hadn’t missed one of Henry’s birthdays since the day he left.

Oh, and the divorce papers. That had been all the only correspondence she and Killian had shared in the past three years.

Nice.

She covered the soft sniffle she could feel clogged in her throat, and cleared her throat. “Let’s go back inside.”

It had seemed like the best course of action at the time - it’d be frowned upon to keep the bride-to-be and her friends in the restroom for the rest of the evening, after all - but she almost ran back inside to sit in a stall until they got her out by her hair when she saw her son with Killian. They were sitting with Graham and Kristoff, who kept sending amused glances to each other as they observed Henry. Her son couldn’t stand still as he apparently told Killian every single thing he had missed since he had been away.

(If that was it, then he had a lot to cover.)

She stood back, drinking in the sight of her son and her ex husband laughing and smiling at each other, and the crushing realization that it had been a long time since she had seen Henry this happy struck her hard and fast and she swayed on her feet. As if on cue, Killian noticed her, and made to get up and go to her, as he always did.

(As he used to do, at least.)

Stepping on the tiny part of herself that insisted on letting him come and talk to her and put his arm around her or whatever it was that he wanted to do, she shook herself and weakly put a hand up, motioning him to stay where he was. To his credit, he did, and Emma told herself that it was better this way.

New plan: maybe not stay in the restroom for the rest of the night, but stay as far away from his table as possible.

Easy as pie.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t eye him up and down, taking note of the lean muscles of his back in his suit when he moved, the rough stubble and piercing blue eyes she had stared at so many times before she fell asleep, right after she woke up in the morning, tangled together in their bed.

That also didn’t mean she didn’t peek at his reunion with her friends–his friends–their friends, she guessed. She hid a smile as she caught Elsa’s icy demeanor when he went to hug her, but didn’t fault her for melting a bit when he finally wrapped his arms around her. Ruby’s round wasn’t so different: she called him a son of a bitch, punched his arm and went for the hug, which he laughingly reciprocated because that was how you dealt with Ruby Lucas and Killian knew better than to protest.

All in all, her plan was working: she kept close to her mom - who thankfully had already greeted Killian and at seeing Emma’s expression didn’t even try to suggest she went back to her friends - and Belle, and made conversation with whoever crossed paths with them as long as they didn’t seem like they wanted to discuss the fact that her ex-husband had miraculously appeared out of thin air.

For as successful as her plan to avoid him was turning out to be, she couldn’t get past the chance to get away the first time she could, which prompted her to escape to the balcony where thankfully nobody had sneaked out to. She swept her gaze over it, taking in the polished rocky bannister and sculptures framing the French doors.

Once upon a time, she’d have escaped to a place like this to smoke with Killian. They’d have laughed at people’s fashion choices, and taken pictures posing next to the nude statues. They’d have laughed until they were drunk on plain joy.

A frown touched her lips. Things changed, indeed.    

“I thought you quit?”

...And some things didn’t, apparently.

She looked over her shoulder to find Killian standing behind her, hands stuffed inside his pants pockets and looking curiously at her hand. She waved her fingers to show him that she wasn’t, in fact, holding a cigarette. “I did.”

He frowned, but chose not to comment on that. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Trying to avoid you. To no avail, I guess,” she added resentfully, turning back to the view of the city lights in front of her.

He stepped closer to her, and she shivered against her will, even if she was not cold at all. Rather than give him the satisfaction of knowing how his presence affected her, she pretended to analyze her nails, silently commending Ashley’s help for her manipedi earlier that week and staring at her polish as if she thought it was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen. Killian leaned casually against the bannister, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting one in that annoyingly graceful way of his. “You had to know I would come to talk to you.”

“The radio silence from the past three years gave me pause.”

The words tasted like poison on her tongue, the resentment and hurt of three entire years biting and cruel. Killian’s sigh was quiet, and he came to stand at her side, hand mere inches from hers. “Emma…”

“Don’t ‘Emma’ me.”

He sighed and ran his fingers through his black hair, making it stand up even more than usual. “I just wanted to explain.”

“You’re three years late for that, Jones.”

He stepped back as if he had slapped her, and his expression hardened. “Jones, is it?”

“You got a problem with that?” she challenged, and he seemed to deflate all of a sudden, letting all his weight drop on his hands as he leaned on the balcony.

“I guess yes.”

“Too bad.”

“Swan.” As she stubbornly kept staring daggers at her nails, he snorted and flicked a few ashes off the end of his cigarette. “God, but I missed your grumpy face.”

“I don’t have a grumpy face.”

His lips pulled into that damn smirk of his. “You do. You furrow your brows and your lips do that thing–it’s too damn cute.”

She realized a beat later what he was doing - baiting her to get a reaction out of her. She gritted her teeth. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t want to leave you.” He paused, and added, “You or Henry.”

“And yet you did, with no explanation. The only word I’ve heard from you after all this time were the divorce papers signed back. Do you even know how that feels?” She didn’t say the words out loud, but the rest was as clear as a bell in the silence hanging between them. _After everything I’ve told you about my childhood, my past? The foster homes? Neal?_

His eyes softened, a flicker of pain crossing his face. “It wasn’t my intention.” She just choked back a laugh in response, arms bracing against her chest as if by holding herself that way she’d keep all the hurt he’d inflicted inside, unable for him to see.

“It never is. I’m just someone else’s collateral damage, every goddamn time.”

“Emma…” he started, but someone from the doors called her name at the same time.

“Emma?”

She let out a breath, both relieved and a little disappointed that the moment had been broken. No matter how painful the last three years had been for her and the sworn oath not to take any of Killian’s shit anymore in case he ever showed up again, there was no way of denying that she wanted to hear whatever he had to say. She had spent too many nights wondering what had driven him away - if it had been something she had done, if it had been just him, if there was something inherently broken in her that made everybody slip away no matter how hard she tried to keep them close.

When she turned, she gasped at the sight of Walsh taking in the scene before him with a confused frown.

“Walsh,” she said, her voice coming out a little too breathless for her liking. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes went from her crossed arms in protective stance to Killian’s hands right by hers on the balcony, and he raised an eyebrow. “Is everything okay?”

“Perfectly okay. Just taking some air, catching up,” she reassured him, speaking with more confidence than she felt. Walsh gave her a look, and she subtly shook her head, silently asking him to drop it. To her surprise, he not only did just that, but stepped outside to join them, offering a hand in Killian’s direction.

“I don’t think we know each other. I’m Walsh Green, Emma’s boyfriend.”

Killian’s eyes glinted and Emma had to suppress a groan at the childlike joy in his face. He took Walsh’s hand, shaking it firmly with a little too much enthusiasm. “Nice to meet you. The name’s Killian Jones - Emma’s ex husband.”

“Oh.” Walsh said in surprise, stepping back from him. For a moment he hesitated, and then he shoved his hands in his pants pockets and shook his head. “I didn’t know you were attending the ceremony. I thought Emma said you disappeared on thin air.”

“Clearly, I didn’t. I was just abroad,” Killian assured him, cool as a cucumber. “And what can I say. I’d hate to miss an old friend’s special day.”

“I’m sure they’re delighted to have you back,” Walsh commented testily, still eyeing Emma as if her current dismayed expression was proof enough of how fake his words were. “Are you staying for long?”

Killian shrugged, but his eyes lingered on Emma. “I still don’t know. I have to figure some things out,” he said, extinguishing his cigarette.

“Sure.” As if that concluded their exchange, he turned to Emma, his hand setting over her hip and pulling her towards him in the most obvious Macho Move she had ever seen in her life. From the way she could feel Killian’s burning stare, it was working seamlessly. “Emma, I think Anna was asking for you when I got here–she seemed pretty anxious.”

“Shocker,” both Emma and Killian intoned at the same time, and the corner of her lips lifted up in surprise at the sudden memento of their former camaraderie. Before she could reflect on the way Killian’s own face lit up, she swiveled back, pecking Walsh’s cheek and a muttered “I should go”.

With one last look in Killian’s direction, she fled out of the balcony, back into the crowd in search of her sister.

* * *

**  
**  
“So, that was Killian,” Walsh commented that night after he had driven her and Henry home. She had invited him for a while, because, as it turned out, she felt weirdly guilty after the events of the night. Which was, of course, completely stupid because she had done nothing wrong and it wasn’t her fault Killian fucking Jones had decided it was the best time to suddenly pack his bags and come back to Boston, but still. She felt guilty. And worried. **  
**

Thus, Walsh sitting at her kitchen table nursing a glass of milk.

She folded her arms across her chest and nodded curtly because really, there wasn’t anything else to say.

“I didn’t expect him to be so...”

“Annoying? Rude? Full of himself?”

He chuckled, shaking his head at her. “I was gonna say puppy eyed, but those aren’t too far gone to be fairly honest. The guy does have a considerable ego.”

(Emma’s mind did not go to other things of Killian’s that were considerable.)

“He is a master at the puppy eyes,” she finally conceded, and stood up to fix herself a bowl of cereal because that was what Emma Swan did when she was nervous or upset: she stuffed herself with cereal.

“He looks…heartbroken. Which is surprising, considering he’s the one who left.”

She honest to God didn’t know what else to say but “Yeah” at that. She valiantly focused on clearing the counter away after filling her bowl with the cereal and milk, and picking up her spoon, she sat across from him.

“How did you two meet, anyway?”

With a tired sigh, she let her forehead touch the edge of the table, asking for patience. Henry, apparently unaware of the mounting tension in the room, stepped out from his room and sat down beside her, stealing her spoon and licking some leftover cocoa. “Don’t you know? They hated each other at first!”

“Henry…” she warned, but her son went on like he hadn’t heard her.

“He was uncle Kristoff’s friend and they met while mom was in college, but they despised each other.”

Walsh’s expression was carefully guarded, but she’d say he looked almost... amused. “Really?”

“Yeah, but then one day they made up and became friends and then they started dating. Killian says he finally won her over, but mom always rolled her eyes and insisted there was nothing better around so she stuck with him, but I don’t believe her.”

She dropped her face in her hands once more, but peeked through her fingers at Walsh, who kept smiling in her direction, albeit a bit tightly in her opinion.

She couldn’t blame him.

“Neither do I,” he finally told Henry, who smiled at him and kept playing with her spoon. She breathed heavily, stood from her stool and came up behind him, taking the bowl from him and ignoring his groan of protest.

“Storytime’s over, kid. Bed.”

There must have been something in her voice, because he didn’t insist. He kissed her cheek and then rounded the corner to pat Walsh’s back before leaving for his bedroom. “Good night Walsh.”

“Good night buddy, see you tomorrow.”

Swiping the counter with a wet rag and clearing out their impromptu night snack, she busied herself for a couple of silent minutes around the kitchen. Walsh, for his part, finished his milk and stood up to drop the glass on the sink.

“I could stay if you want me to,” he suggested, and she sighed wearily, passing a hand through her curls.

“We’ll be fine, and you have to wake up early and go change to your apartment.”

He followed her around until he was behind her, his hands going to her hips. She turned in his arms, her own snaking around his neck. He was almost tentative in his touch as he held her, and she bit her lip, the guilt she had felt earlier coming back with a passion. “I don’t mind as long as you want me here.”

“You’re cute,” she declared, grinning softly at him as her hand played with the hair at the back of his neck, and he gave her an affronted look.

“Just what every boyfriend wants to hear.” The edge in his expression came back, and he searched her eyes worriedly. “Are we okay?”

She met his eyes, and slowly leaned in to brush her lips with kiss, her heart stuttering at his relieved sigh. “We are okay,” she whispered, and he smiled against her mouth, nuzzling her neck as he hugged her.  

If only she could believe it herself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one with the awkwardest wedding ever

 

 

_There was a loud knock on the door, and Emma padded through the apartment, still sniffling after hanging up with Ingrid on her phone. “David?” she asked as she opened it, and tried to school her features as soon as she realized that no, it definitely wasn’t David._

_Killian lamely waved a hand. “Sorry, no. It’s Killian.”_

_She cleared her throat, spinning on her heel. She went back to the couch, not bothering inviting him to come in.“Is David coming anytime soon? He said he’d be back by now.”_

_He followed her and dropped a paper bag on the kitchen counter. Emma didn’t even bother asking what it was - she wasn’t really curious about it. About anything, really. She just wanted to be left alone._

_“He called to ask for me to bring this back to you? He has an emergency at home with Mary Margaret - apparently she has the flu.”_

_That caught her attention. She sat up, going through the stuff littering her table in search of her phone. “She does? I should call.” When she didn’t locate it, she gave up, collapsing on the couch again. “Thank you for coming though.”_

_She hoped he’d go away once he delivered his message, but of course, as Killian Jones’ MO usually went, he did exactly what she didn’t want him to. He tentatively stepped in her direction, taking in the state of the living room. “Are you okay?”_

_“I’m fine.” She flinched at how strangled her voice sounded. She flinched again when she realized that he, of course, had also noticed._

_“Swan, we may not be the chummiest pals but I can tell when you’re upset.” She snorted, trying to play it off as a sniffle, but her plan backfired when she sniffled for real, her eyes tearing up. Jones’ voice was equal parts alarmed and concerned at this point. “What happened?”_

_“Ingrid called,” she uttered, and in a second he was sitting by her, voice caught._

_“Is everything okay? Did something happen?”_

_“She’s fine, don’t worry.”_

_“Then what is it?”_

_Her voice wavered. “It’s… Sven.”_

_He stayed silent for a beat. “I’m lost.”_

_“Sven is…_ was _… our dog,” she stammered, not daring meeting his eyes, and the frown marring his forehead finally disappeared, comprehension replacing his earlier confusion._

_“I - oh.”_

_And, oh God, she_ definitely, _100% broke down. Right there, in front of this guy she had never really gotten along with, because her dog had died. How pathetic could she get?_

_Strong arms came around her, jolting her - she hadn’t been expecting it, but she turned into him, pressing her cheek against his chest. He didn’t say anything, which she was grateful for. He didn’t tell that she’d be okay or whatever crap people sometimes said when someone - or, you know, a dog, - died, but she didn’t care about that right now. When she stopped crying and her breathing returned to normal, he pulled away from her slightly._

_“I’m so sorry Swan.”_

_“I just don’t know why I’m making such a big deal about it, I mean, I know it’s a dog but…”_

_“I understand, Swan,” he stopped her, hand hovering between them as if daring to comfort her once more but not sure if she’d allow it. She felt for him - she herself didn’t really know if she wanted him to or if it would be too much. “Don’t ever feel like I’m judging you for being upset for missing an important part of your life.”_

_She bit back a sniffle, and hiccuped a soft “Thank you” in return. He smiled shyly at her._

_“Not a problem.”_

_They stood like that for a moment, and Emma wondered if he was feeling as awkward as she did, if he was going through excuses in his head to get away as far from the weeping girl as possible or if she should politely see him out, but that was not what she said._

_“Killian?”_

_(And yeah, the look on his face was totally warranted - it_ was _a big deal. It was the first time she called him by his name, at least to his face.)_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Do you want to do something? Like, now?”_

_She didn’t know if she imagined it, but for a second he looked actually_ hopeful _. “What do you have in mind?”_

_She shrugged, waving a hand towards the couch and the TV set.“Watch something together?”_

_Without further invitation, he shrugged out of his trademark leather jacket, left it over the couch’s armrest and sat back like he belonged there. She followed his example, nervously biting her lip. “It’d be my pleasure.” He said as she huddled in the seat next to his. “Pass the remote.”_

_She lunged for it and cradled it against her chest, and for the first time that day, her smile wasn’t forced and it didn’t hurt. “Not a chance in hell, Jones.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t believe you still are looking like this!” Ruby exclaimed as she entered the room they had coined as ‘the bridesmaids quarters’. Emma internally counted to ten, trying to calm down by telling herself that this would be over soon. 

“I have a twelve year old kid who can stain literally _anything_ in a minute - would you be willing to risk my dress becoming a contemporary piece of art instead of this?”

Ruby considered it for a moment. “Fair enough. Go change or something!”

“Don’t you need my help with anything?”

Elsa showed up after applying her mascara in front of the mirror. She waved her off as she tugged on Ruby’s arm. “We got it. Go suit up already.”

They left her to get changed and do her make-up, and Emma sighed, thanking whatever God was looking over her for letting her have these moments in peace. She sorted through her things in the case she had brought with her make-up bag and the pouch with the accessories she’d be wearing with her dress. She checked the bra she had put on that morning was in fact the one she needed to wear - nothing says ‘trashy’ as visible bra straps with pretty dresses - and she was about to step in front of the vanity to do her makeup when she heard footsteps outside the door and two very recognizable ‘awwww’s. 

“Who did your hair?” 

Henry’s huff was indistinguishable. “Nobody did my hair. I brushed it.”

Emma smiled to herself. Her son being ambushed by Ruby and Elsa had to be the cherry on top for him this morning, after all she had badgered him to wear his suit. 

“You look adorable.” Ruby announced, and Emma could actually see Henry scrunching up his nose. 

“Mom forgot her earrings and Grandma asked me to leave them here for her where she could find them.”

“Go ahead.”

She heard a quiet slapping sound, and Henry’s annoyed “Stop touching it!”, and a chorus of laughter from her friends, and she shook her head, amused. Retreating heels clicked against the floor, and she set back to her mission of getting fucking dressed or she’d miss the ceremony, and was about to do so when a new and unfamiliar set of footsteps joined her son’s. 

“Henry? What are you doing here?” Killian curiously inquired. 

“Dropping this for mom.”

“Oh.” 

Emma’s hand automatically flew to her mouth, realizing probably at the same time that Killian did behind her door.

He had given her those earrings for their one year anniversary. 

A part of her wished she could see his face, but the bigger part of her was glad that she was hidden from view. She heard Killian clearing his throat. “Make sure she sees them. You know how she is when she can’t find her things.”

“Hurricane Swan,” Henry supplied excitedly, and both her son and ex-husband quietly laughed, probably recalling the dozens of times Emma had made a complete mess of their apartment when she had been looking for her keys, her phone or her favorite shirt. 

“How did you get here?” Henry questioned. 

“I drove from the hotel.”

“You’re staying at a hotel?”

“Aye.”

“Why aren’t you staying at home?”

Emma’s breath caught. There was a brief pause, and Killian’s voice was as cautious as she’d ever heard him be.

“I don’t think that’d be a very good idea.”

“But there’s stuff of yours still there. And we have a room.”

Emma bit her lip. She _really_ needed to talk to her son about his good Samaritan syndrome - especially when it’d mean him offering the man who broke her heart shelter at their place. 

“I’m not sure your mum would be interested in having me there.”

“It’s your home too,” Henry stubbornly insisted. Killian sighed, and she pictured him laying a placating hand on her son’s shoulder. 

“It’s just a house, Henry. Home are the people you love. Right now, I’m home, no matter where I’m staying.”

Without her realizing it, she had wandered closer to the door until her back was pressed against it, with her eyes shut but able to imagine the scene in the next room. There was a rustle of fabric, and she knew Henry had flung himself against Killian, hugging him with all his might. 

The fact that Killian’s next words were a warning about their jackets and how Emma would strangle him if they wrinkled them only confirmed her suspicions.

She only moved back to the vanity when the tickling of the clock on the corner of the room became louder than the footsteps outside. She ran to get ready, intent on leaving behind her the conversation she had overhead and the emotions it had stirred inside of her, because she _really_ didn’t need this right now. At all. She did her make-up, rearranged her hair and put on her heels in record time, and finally went to step into her dress when the unthinkable happened.

The zip.

The _fucking_ zip. 

“Dammit,” she loudly swore, and turned around as if her freaking Fairy Godmother would appear on thin air to Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo the zip up or whatever.  

Of course, it didn’t happen, but she almost ran into the wall behind her instead, tripping on the skirt. She moaned at the radiating pain in her toe, glaring at her shoe, but thankfully managed not to inflict more damage to herself thanks to a knock on the door.

“Swan?”

“Please tell me Ruby or somebody is out there with you,” she groaned. 

“They asked me to fetch you, actually.” He paused, and then asked quietly. “Is everything alright?”

Her forehead thumped against the door, because _of course_ he’d be the only one there when she needed someone. Not her son, not her friends, not her sisters, not her boyfriend - _him_. 

This wasn’t funny _at all_ , Fairy Godmother. 

Bracing herself, she opened the door, carefully making her face devoid of expression at seeing him - in a tuxedo, no less. 

(This _really_ wasn’t funny, Fairy Godmother.)

“I need your help,” she stated, and he seemed to recover himself - he had been kind of gaping for a moment after taking her in, and she _hated_ how it made her ego burst with pride at his reaction.  

“Anything.”

She turned around, holding her hair over her shoulder so it wouldn’t get in the way. “Do the zipper up.”

“It’d be my pleasure.” She inhaled sharply as his fingers brushed the skin of her back, zipping up the dress and taking his sweet time doing it. She gritted her teeth, even if part of her was melting at the charged moment. Memories of those very same fingers stripping her down in that languid and slow way flooded through her head, but she banished them with a cough, breaking the moment. He seemed to notice the change in her, and she could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “No bra?”

“I swear I’ll knee you in the groin.”

“Ouch,” he laughed. She ignored him, leaving him right where he was as she ran - or tumbled, really - towards her bag, checking out the last items on her mental list: dress, makeup, hair, shoes, rings, clutch... 

“That reminds me...” 

She looked up at his reflection in the mirror, and saw him holding out something in his hands. 

The earrings. Dammit.

“Thanks.” She took them from him without meeting his eyes, going back to the mirror as she put them on. She fervently hoped he’d leave now, but no such luck: he leaned against the door, drinking her in as she fluffed her curls over her shoulders and rearranged the skirt of the dress. At least he wasn’t talking, which was an improvement, she guessed.

“You look lovely.”

She bit back a groan because _dammit_. 

She sighed. “Stop, please.”

“Stop what?” he said, advancing towards her. 

“Looking at me like that. Telling me how hot I look.”

The corner of his lips tugged up, eyes glinting as if he found her words amusing. “But you do.”

She glared at him. “I know I do, but it just doesn’t help at all to hear you say it. I don’t feel pretty, or warm, or happy, or anything - It just makes me _angry_.” She threw her arm up, almost throwing her clutch away. “What the hell do you think I feel when you say something like that? ‘Hey, he thinks I look hot. Maybe he wants to get with me again. Maybe he’s just being nice. Maybe he’s sorry. Maybe he _pities_ me. But oh wait! Get this! No matter how hot I look, he _still_ left and didn’t show up in three years’.”

His earlier amusement vanished, the haunted look she had seen in his eyes the last time they had seen each other at the rehearsal dinner before Walsh interrupted them back on his features. He looked chagrined, biting his cheek in the way she knew he did when he felt guilty.

“I’m sorry love.”

Oh, how she had wanted to hear him say that, grovel at her feet, tattoo his apologies on her skin as he repeated them over and over. And yet, it still wasn’t enough after all the heartbreak of the last three years. Though she had to admit it kind of helped, to hear him say it and _mean_ it, even if just a little bit.  

“That’s more like it,” she said. She fixed herself one last time on the mirror and cleared her throat. “So let’s get this party started in peace as rational functioning adults, shall we?”

She didn’t wait for his answer, walking past him and out of the door in the direction of the church, but that didn’t mean she didn’t hear his answer, or that it didn’t make her close her eyes shut, warring against memories. 

(“As you wish.”)

 

* * *

 

All in all, the wedding was as successful as Emma had predicted. Anna got tongue-tied during her vows and rambled for a while, but it somehow managed to look adorable, as everything did coming from her younger sister, she guessed. Kristoff’s hands shook as he put Anna’s ring on her finger, Elsa gripped Emma hands so hard in hers it actually _hurt_ her, and Mary Margaret’s emotional speech brought half of the audience to tears. Graham, David and Killian loudly wolf-whistled at the kiss, to nobody’s surprise. Ingrid almost bursted in pride at Will’s moan when he first tried the wedding cake, and Emma had to make Henry promise he’d only eat two pieces or there would be no way for him to sleep that night. (It didn’t really matter in the end, seeing as he got to sneak bites from everybody’s plates.) David and Graham got into some silly bet involving who knew what that had them running away in the middle of a conversation to get to the first waiter who walked inside the room, and Emma was too tired to even find out what _that_ was about.

Also worth noting: she hadn’t directly talked to Killian since the incident before the ceremony, which, okay, nice. 

As she said: a successful wedding all in all.

She had been dancing with Walsh - who had shown up shortly before the ceremony, kissing her on the cheek and sitting with the rest of her friends a couple of rows behind her, - quietly talking between themselves when Graham cut in. 

“Can I?”

“Of course.” Walsh briefly pecked her on the lips and with a nod to her friend, he went in search of her mom to compliment her cake. She cocked an eyebrow at Graham, who looked like the cat who got the canary. 

“No need to thank me, that’s what friends are for.”

“Can we not do this today?” she pleaded, her nails digging into his shoulders to drive her point home. He pursed his lips, but at the tired look on her face his expression softened. 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Is that how we’re calling it these days?”

Her head plopped on his shoulder, already regretting the fact that she had accepted dancing with him. “Graham...”

“I just want to know why you looked like you wanted to punch Killian earlier,” he rushed to explain, and she laughed against her will. 

“That’s my general face when it comes to him.”

He gave her a look. “Not three years ago.”

“It’s not three years ago anymore,” she reminded him. He stayed silent for a while, and she could have fooled herself into believing he’d stop with the pushing-her-towards-Killian crap but of course not. 

“I’m just saying...” he started but she interrupted him before he could go on. 

“What are you, his lawyer? Drop it Graham.”

He appeared conflicted, and dropped his eyes, guiding her around the dance floor as gently as possible. “Sorry.”

Emma almost snorted. The second ‘sorry’ she got today - this must be a record or something. Graham didn’t look like he wanted to say anymore, probably worried that she’d snap at him again, and she was grateful for it. 

Except that she couldn’t stop freaking talking. 

“He hurt me,” she murmured, and his sigh made her curls brush the skin of her shoulders, tickling her. 

“I know. And he regrets it. And he probably wants to apologize.”

“It’s too late.”

He pulled back slightly from her to stare right at her. “Is it?”

She stopped herself from saying something that she didn’t mean, because the truth was she didn’t really know what she felt. She could forgive, but not forget, maybe. But yet, she couldn’t really forgive if she didn’t know the whys and whens and wheres and whos of the story. She didn’t even know why he left them. She didn’t know why he’d come back. She couldn’t just let him back in without all the facts, knowing how fragile her heart was, especially when it came to him.

“Maybe not an apology, but a dance?” Graham asked, raising his eyebrows. She frowned. 

“What?”

“He’s coming right here, probably to ask you to dance.” Emma’s hands tightened on his arms, and Graham huffed. “Come on, it’s, what, three or four minutes? He’s quite good on his feet.”

“Then _you_ dance with him.”

“I would, but I think I see a new waiter at the corner and I can’t let David win this bet.”

She was about to ask him what the hell they were even playing at when the bane of her existence, also known as her beloved ex-husband, walked up to them, a mixture of fear, anticipation and a hint of his very renowned self-confidence clouding his face. “May I ask for the next dance?”

“I hate you,” she whispered as Graham pried her hands from his shoulders, where they had anchored themselves when she saw Killian approaching them. Graham smiled ruefully, and gave her a gentle push towards Killian. 

“No you don’t. Be good.”

She couldn’t really tell what was awkwardest: dancing with your estranged ex husband whom you had had a fight earlier in the day knowing that your current boyfriend was somewhere around there probably staring, or dancing with your estranged ex husband whom you had had a fight earlier in the day knowing that your current boyfriend was somewhere around there probably staring and freaking _enjoying_ how it felt to be that close to him. 

Graham hadn’t been lying: the guy could dance. Of course she had known this - he had boasted about it more than once during their relationship and marriage - but three years made you forget about the small stuff, the little details. How he’d spin her around in the kitchen while they waited for their meals to cook, or how he had pulled her to him during their first dance at their own wedding, hugging her as close to him as he could, as if he wished they would never be apart from each other.

Funny, that, considering he was the one who left her. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, bringing her back to the present - the swaying couples, the light music, her in his arms. All that jazz. 

“For what?”

“For earlier. For the past three years. For everything.”

(Three apologies in one day. This _had_ to be a record.)

“I told you - you’re three years late.”

His fingers squeezed her hips, and she shivered despite herself thinking of how once upon a time he’d do that to leave marks on her skin. “Still, I want to say it. If I didn’t, you would hold it against me, and so would I.” He gave her a shy smile. “You know I can’t shut up.”

Her eyes rolled, even if she felt her lips curling up. “I do.”

Their feet moved on their own accord, as they had done so many times at so many parties, friends’ weddings and drunken nights. Her chest brushed his, and she had to stop herself from sniffing his cologne - the one she had always joked he used too much of, and he would rub his hands all over her hair in retaliation. 

“I had to,” Killian said, and she tensed in his arms, because as much as she wanted to play innocent and ask him what he meant by that, she didn’t. 

She _knew_ where this was headed.  

“Killian...” she started to protest, but he ignored her, his voice pleading.  

“I promise I will just say it once and I won’t mention it again unless you ask me to.”

He looked at her questioningly, and she finally gave in, nodding for him to go on. He licked his lips - his very own trademark I’m-nervous-as-fuck-but-I-won’t-show-it gesture - and met her eyes steadily. “Remember that day at the docks? At our bench?”

Somehow, even if they had been at those docks countless of times, she knew what time he was talking about. She remembered the blue shirt and black vest he had been wearing, the black shadows under his eyes due to his lack of sleep, the way his skin stretched over his cheekbones after he had lost weight. She remembered him, slurring his words as his voice broke, mentioning Milah’s death and hugging her to him to the point that it hurt. 

And hadn’t she, in that hidden part of her, known all along that _that_ had been the reason for him leaving?

“Yeah.”

“Remember what I told you?” he asked again, and an expression of shame and guilt fell over his features.

“Yeah.”

He closed his eyes. “That’s what happened.” 

All of the breath left Emma’s lungs in one whooshing gasp, almost as if someone had kicked her in the chest. “It’s no excuse,” she whispered once she got her voice back. 

“I know. But I fear you know what I’m talking about.”She looked at him in surprise, shocked and quite a bit curious, as he went on to explain. He caught her eye, and the lost boy she had once seen in him and fell in love with waved back. 

“We run.” He concluded. 

“We could have run together,” she said, voice breaking at the end. He hung his head, and his hair, which had grown since the last time she had seen him before he left, swept over his forehead, but he didn’t try to move it back. He kept his gaze locked on hers, reading the words she wasn’t saying. 

_I would have been there for you. I_ was _there for you._

“I know, but...” He began, but Emma spoke over him, knowing what the rest of his sentence would be.

“We run,” she repeated, tasting the words and feeling them come home. Flashes of a broken childhood, of bus stops and nights spent whenever she found shelter, all before Ingrid put a hell of a fight for her. Memories of her time with Neal, and the years after that, the quick fucks with no feelings attached that would happen here and there once Henry came to the world. The hiding and closing in once she thought she had disappointed someone or found herself in a fight with someone she loved. 

And that had been one of the things she had loved most about him. How the lost girl in her had been able to stop running with the lost boy in him. 

She choked, and had to swallow hard to regain her composure. “Killian?” 

“Yes, love?”

Emma glanced around the room, taking in the sight of the laughing couples, drunken guests, and felt like burrowing her nose in his neck, as she had done countless of times before when she needed his support, the certainty that he was there, anchoring her. “I hate running, even if I’m good at it.”

She wasn’t sure if it was her nostalgia-filled brain or an actual fact, but she thought she felt his lips brushing against her hairline. “Me too.” 

They swayed, opting to let the music fill in the silence. Emma didn’t even want to analyze what had transpired between them and what the revelation of his words meant. 

“Is everything okay?”

Emma and Killian sprang apart as if someone had shocked them. He gave her a tremulous smile as he pulled back from her and almost stepped on her dress, but she had no time to even process how to answer it. Walsh was there, in front of her - of _them_ \- staring them both down with a quirked eyebrow, and the sense of déjà-vu was so intense it almost left her breathless. 

“Yeah, sure. Why?” she asked. Walsh pointed at the band, that had stopped playing for a minute to have a break. 

“Song’s over. I was wondering if you wanted a drink.”

She could see Killian’s face, almost pleading with her not to go. She just didn’t know what for. Hadn’t they talked about it enough? He had said his piece. At least she had gotten the ‘why’ he left. Now she needed time to mull it over. She took Walsh’s hand in hers, grateful for the chance to get away. “Thanks for the dance,” she said as she walked past her ex-husband, trying not to take to heart the way his face fell, but really, what had he expected? This didn’t change anything. 

She followed Walsh to the bar, telling herself she shouldn’t throw herself into a chair as if it were a lifeline no matter how much her feet hurt. While he ordered two martinis, she played with a napkin and a ridiculously small plate filled with peanuts, munching on them distractedly. 

“That looked intense.”

She almost got a peanut stuck on her throat. She didn’t really feel like reliving the entire conversation, especially not with Walsh, of all people. “It kind of was, I guess.”

He hummed, and she went back to her peanuts when the bartender gave them their drinks. She sipped from the glass, silently praying for no more drama. 

“Is he back for you?” Walsh asked, and thankfully she had already stopped drinking, or they would have found themselves in a dreadfully messy situation. 

“No.”

He looked dubious at most. “Are you sure?”

She sighed, her hand crawling through the counter until it rested over his. “Walsh...”

“I’m just asking,” he stated matter-of-factly, and she truly got it. He wasn’t being a jealous jerk, or pressing the matter. He just wanted to know what the hell was going on and where they stood. Emma could understand that. 

Pity she couldn’t give him a straight answer, because she didn’t really know what it was. No matter what Killian had told her, it still didn’t explain what he was doing there now. 

She stabbed at the olive in her glass with a toothpick. “Even if he were, it wouldn’t matter. It’s over. It’s been over for a long time.”

She caught Walsh sipping from his drink, not daring to meet her eye, and she sighed. Dropping her own glass on the counter, she cupped his face with her hands, smoothing the lines around his mouth with her fingertips. “I’m sorry.”

His shoulders slumped, and he covered her hand with his, prying them softly from his cheeks. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Emma.” They stared at their laced fingers, his a bit browner than her pale skin, and she was somehow relieved at the softness in his voice. “Not yet, at least,” he added, and she froze, eyes flying up to meet his, offended.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what,” he said, and went on when he saw her ready to protest. “It’s not like it’s a secret you’ve had feelings for him since forever and now he’s back.”

Emma shook her head and gently rested the palms of her hands against his chest.  “But I’m with you.”

“That could change, if you want to.” 

Her jaw muscles twitched with suppressed anger, but she managed to keep her temper in check.  “Can we not do this right here?”

His eyes pierced hers, and finally nodded to himself, as if he had found whatever he was looking for in them. “That’d be better.” He stepped back from her, gaze roaming through the room in search of somebody. “It’s getting late, I should get going. I can drop Henry off at Granny’s if you want to.” 

“You don’t have to,” she protested.

“I get the feeling that tonight, it’s actually the best course of action.”  At the pained expression on his face, Emma’s throat tightened with guilt, even if she didn’t know what she should have done in order for this situation not to be so fucked up. It wasn’t like she had asked Killian to show up and ruin everything she’d built since he left. She sighed and cupped his face in her hands once more, but he sighed, took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her fingers briefly.  “We’ll talk tomorrow.” 

With that, he left in search of Henry.

* * *

 

Let the record show that she stayed until the very end of the festivities because of her friends. Ruby wouldn’t hear her complaints, dragging her to the dance floor every time she as much as looked like bolting outside. Elsa only shrugged when Emma mournfully looked in her direction, looping her arm through hers and sitting by her side, head resting on her shoulder as they observed Anna and Kristoff dancing. 

Thad had been one of the things that managed to make her smile. 

(That and finding out Graham had lost whatever bet he had had going on with David.) (He had it coming for being a meddling asshole.) (Even if he did come to her side later and offered her a bag of candy as an apology.) 

It wasn’t until she was ready to leave that she came to the conclusion that maybe letting Walsh drive back to town with Henry hadn’t been their most brilliant idea. The line she had been calling for cabs to come pick guests up wasn’t answering, and there were at least ten other people waiting to get a lift. Ruby and Graham had already left, and Elsa was staying at the place the reception had been held, but there no more rooms left even if she had caved in and decided to stay for the night. 

She kept stabbing her phone’s keyboard ringing the damn number again and again until she noticed Killian dropping Kill’s drunk ass in Belle’s car. She carefully hid her face with her hair, praying for him not to see her.

“Emma? What are you doing here?”

_Dammit_.

Her head twitched slightly in his direction, but she kept her back to him.  “Waiting for a cab.”

“Where’s Henry?” 

“He’s with Granny.”

“And Walsh?”  he added, sounding wary. She hesitated, and could almost feel his gaze on her to the point wheres she was surprised it didn’t burn holes in her skin.

“He dropped Henry earlier.”

“Oh.”  He sighed and continued.  “Do you need a ride?”  he asked her. She chewed her lower lip nervously, as her gaze flitted between him and the line of guests waiting for a cab.

“I’ll wait.” 

He closed the distance between them as he stepped to stand by her side, following her eyes to the empty driveway and her phone in her hand. He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I’m afraid it’s gonna be a while.”

She bit back a groan. 

_Dammit, Fairy Godmother_. 

“Fine.”

 

* * *

 

“Where’s your hotel?” she asked him later when they were in the car, the music playing on the radio the only sound as he drove. He gave her a curious look. 

“How do you know I’m staying at a hotel?”

She flushed, cursing at herself for letting slip that she had eavesdropped him and Henry earlier. “Forget it.”

Thankfully, he didn’t pry. “It’s near the church actually.”

Her head snapped up, and she gave him a disbelieving look. “You drove all the way here just to drop me off? What the hell is your problem?”

He shrugged, as if it wasn’t any problem driving for an hour just to leave her at her place and then another one for the drive back to his hotel. “It was that, leaving you to freeze out there waiting for a cab or inviting you to my room.”

She gritted her teeth, incensed. “It’s _an hour long ride_ , Killian.”

“I’m aware, love.”

The rest of the drive was as silent as before, but where before she had been almost relaxed and comfortable, now she was jittery and confused. She knew she shouldn’t be - he _had_ offered to give her a lift, but _why_ had he? What did he hope to accomplish? Did he even hope to accomplish something? He knew she was with Walsh. But yeah, Walsh wasn’t there at the moment. Not that she cared. If he wasn’t, she meant. Because nothing would happen. At all. 

She was _rambling inside her head_ , how fucked up was she? 

She probably hadn’t thought her plan through, no matter how long the rambling went, because when he parked near their former shared apartment, she turned to him and ordered, “Get out. You’re taking the spare room bed.”

“Emma...”

She ignored his wary attempt at a protest. “I’m not happy about this, but I offered and you’re gonna accept, so shut up and do as I say.”

There was no more complaining after that: Killian knew her well enough to know that when she set her mind on something, it’d go as she damn well pleased. A while back, he’d have smirked at her, said something along the lines of ‘Bossy, Swan’ as he cheekily commented on how she should better use her bossy attitude somewhere more private, love, or something equally ridiculous that would inevitably get her out of her underwear in record time. 

Not now, though.

They trudged in silence inside the elevator, and she attempted to look as collected as she could manage, tamping down the blush coloring her cheeks when she remembered how many times they had made out in that cramped space. He must have been thinking something along the same lines, if the way he unconsciously dragged his finger over a mark they had once left in the wall was any indication. 

Summary: awkwardest. Elevator ride. Ever. 

What she hadn’t been ready for was his reaction at stepping inside their apartment. He froze at the doorstep, a trembling hand going out to reverently touch the wall and studying everything his eyes could latch on: the lamps, the paintings Elsa had given them as a gift hanging on the walls, and of course, the pictures over the shelves and tables. His stare zeroed in on one of the two of them with Henry that she hadn’t had the heart to take off the shelf, taken at Olmstead Park. Henry attempted to feed the ducks from the bridge as Emma hugged him from behind so he wouldn’t drop from the edge, and Killian in turn hugged the both of them. It had been a good day. 

He probably noticed that its companion - a picture in which Killian pressed a kiss to her cheek as she laughed, taken at a trip in New York they did with their friends - was missing from his usual place over the TV, but he didn’t mention it. Nor should he.

After all, things had changed. Radically. 

Before the silence got even weirder, he motioned with his arm towards the hallway. “Clean sheets still in the closet?” 

“Yeah.”

He nodded to himself. “I’ll take care of it then.” He walked past her and stopped in his tracks, turning his head to send her a soft, yet albeit small grin. “Goodnight Emma.”

“Goodnight,” she called back at his retreating form. He was about to go into the guest room when she came back to her senses. “Wait!”

Killian looked back at her curiously. She waved a hand towards him as if to encompass the tuxedo in all its glory. “You don’t have anything to wear,” she explained. He huffed out a laugh. 

“It’s no trouble.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring her flushed cheeks. “You’re _not_ sleeping in the nude.” She walked past him, ignoring his burning stare on the back of her dress - and probably her ass - as she ran into her room and came out, throwing a piece of clothing at him. “Take this.”

His eyes widened in recognition, but before he could say anything else, she turned on her heel and ran to her room, tossing a “Night” over her shoulder and hiding inside her safe haven - or what used to be their safe haven. She tried not to think of the cotton T-shirt he had forgotten and she had kept using as a pajamas since then. She tried not to think of how she had clung to it, letting his scent make her believe, if only in her dreams, that she was in his arms. 

She tried not to think of how it now smelled like her, and he was the one wearing it that night. 

 

* * *

 

She stayed in bed as long as she dared to, dreading the reencounter or some awkward moment between them. What the _hell_ had she been thinking by inviting him to sleep at their apartment? What would Henry think? What would her friends think? What would _Walsh_ think?

(Henry didn’t technically have to find out, he’d come back after lunch and she’d make sure she had kicked Killian out way long before her son was back.) (Elsa, Mary Margaret and Ruby would gasp and then ask for details, Graham would request a high five.) (Walsh... She didn’t want to know what he’d think. Or... she could _not_ tell him. Because nothing happened. And if nothing happened, then there was nothing to tell, right?)

(Then why the hell did she feel guilty, of all things?)

Ten minutes later, once her stomach had complained as loudly as possible about her being an idiot and feeding it already, she padded around her room finding something presentable to wear and combing her hair before stepping out into the kitchen. Her eyebrows went up to her hairline when she found Killian had prepared coffee and cocoa, moving around the kitchen as if he had never left. He silently offered her a mug, grinning as she took it and swept a finger over the whipped cream to taste it, ignoring the way his eyes never left her. 

“How did you sleep?” she asked, sitting cross-legged on her favored chair. He grinned at her over his shoulder. 

“Like a baby.”

She kept sipping from her cocoa, biting back the questions her mind supplied. Did he still snore? Did he still hug the pillow like it was a human being? Did he still talk in his sleep? When had he stopped wearing his ring?

She had noticed the night before that he didn’t wear it, and, okay, _why_ would he? They weren’t married anymore. She wasn’t his, he wasn’t hers, no matter how her stomach dropped at the thought (even if she had had time enough to get used to the feeling). 

As politely as she could, she offered him to take a shower and get the hell out of her apartment before her son came back, and he dutifully agreed, asking for a bag to bring back to the hotel some of the things he had forgotten and she had stowed away in a box under her bed. As he showered, she went through the guest room he had slept in, taking the sheets so she could put them with her laundry. She rearranged the bed, swiped the dust off the night table and moved the bag she’d lent him to the corner of the room so she wouldn’t step on it. She found one of Henry’s toys under the bed, and went to put it away inside the night table’s drawer when something caught her eye. She drew in a gasp.

Killian’s ring. 

She fled the room and acted as if she hadn’t seen it, promising herself she wouldn’t think too much about it. Because it _wasn’t_ a big deal. It really wasn’t. Who cared if he still had it on him? He wasn’t wearing it, at least. Right?

As soon as Killian came out of the bathroom, he went back into the guest room, and came out moments later all set, bag in hand. She walked him to the front door, strangely feeling like a shy teenager about to say goodbye to her crush. Which, coincidentally, wasn’t what she _should_ be feeling.  

He paused, knocking his free hand on the door jamb with a small grin. “So. Thanks for letting me stay.”

“No problem.”

They stood still, staring at each other, aware of every movement the other was making, until he seemed to recover his voice. “See you around, Swan.” He took her hand in his briefly, squeezing her fingers tightly in his, and dropped a gentle kiss over her knuckles. She was so stunned she almost missed him winking at her as he spun around and sauntered away down the hallway towards the elevator. 

“Yeah. See ya,” she weakly called out, and he smiled at her over his shoulder before disappearing from view. 

Once the door closed behind her, she walked as in a daze back into the guest room. She sat on the bed, still breathless, until something soft caught her attention. She choked back a sob when she found the shirt he had worn to sleep perfectly folded over the comforter. She hugged it to her chest, drinking in the scent she had almost forgotten as she quietly sniffled into the cotton.

That night, once Henry was sound asleep in his own room, she took out her own ring, which had been stashed inside her jewelry box for three years. She tried it, gazing down at the gold band on her finger, recalling how it would clink against his when he tugged on her hand or he made her spin around the house. 

She fell asleep wearing it for the first time in three years, but managed to take it off with shaking hands the next morning before work. 

 

* * *

 

 

_“Where are you taking me?” she asked as he tugged on her hand, guiding her through the crowd. He just winked at her over, that annoying(ly charming) smirk of his never leaving his lips._

_“It’s a surprise.”_

_She couldn’t help it - she groaned, even getting the attention of a frazzled pedestrian at her right whom she just dismissed as Killian dragged her along with him. “I hate surprises.”_

_“You’ll love this one.”_

_Snorting, she caught up with him, cocking an eyebrow. “Aren’t we sure of ourselves.”_

_He outright laughed, his hand leaving hers for a second until his arm snaked around her waist, hugging her back to his chest as they stumbled around like drunken idiots. “What can I say - I have always been an overconfident bastard.”_

_She hid her face on his shoulder, huffing a laugh against the cotton of his shirt - the one she had mentioned once it brought out his eyes and he had started wearing way more frequently than before. He kissed the top of her head, then her cheek and finally her lips, and she returned it eagerly, still wondering how the simple fact that they were walking down the street intertwined in each others’ arms could make her so happy._

_What felt like hours later - kissing while walking will do that to you - they finally reached their destination. She gave him a look, confused beyond expectations._

_“The Tisch Library? Really, Jones? Is your idea of a date to nerd it out?”_

_He rolled his eyes. “So quick to judge.”_

_Alas, they weren’t there to nerd it out (which was, to be fairly honest, both a relief and a disappointment. She had discovered that nerding out with Jones was actually pretty enjoyable - and usually ended in even more enjoyable activities.) (Not that she was thinking of doing that in a public library.) (At all.) (Nope.)_

_He told her while they climbed to the roof of the library that most people in search of a good view of the city roamed the well-known places like the Skywalk Observatory, or even taking the Red Line over the Longfellow or climbing to Peters Hills, but the roof at Tisch’s wasn’t as crowded._

_He was right, as usual (not that she’d admit it to his face.) She bit back a gasp when she reached the edge of the roof, thinking of how she had always thought the best way to see a city would be from the window on a plane, but here, with Killian behind her, she had to consider rooftops as second best - and closer to home. She stared for a while, just taking it all in, and the realization of all that was happening started sinking in: the butterflies, the non-stop grinning, the soft looks and exploring hands. The inability to stop thinking of him. The fingers reaching for her phone to text him when she thought of something to tell him (which meant literally anything - from philosophical questions in the middle of the night to cute pictures of puppies)._

_“Are you cold?” She turned and found him frowning at her, and she realized with a start that she was shivering. She shook her head adamantly._

_“No”_

_He hugged her from behind, even if she softly protested that she really wasn’t cold, it was the middle of the summer and please don’t, it’s not about_ that _, Killian.“Then what is it?”_

_She said nothing, giving up and letting his hands rest on her hips, pushing her lightly against him. His face hovered by hers, chin leaning over her shoulder, and she closed her eyes shut. “I’m scared.”_

_There was a pause, and she somehow knew that she wouldn’t have to explain. Since they had started seeing each other, there hadn’t really been any moments where she had bared her soul to him and he had needed for her to elaborate. He just - he_ got _it._

_And she loved him for it._

_(And_ that _scared her even more.)_

_“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured, and she sighed._

_“You can’t know that.”_

_“I do.”_

_The firmness in his voice brought her to a start, and she rounded in his arms until they were face to face, her own arms circling his neck and bringing his head closer to hers until their foreheads touched._

_“I’m scared of you breaking my heart.”_

 


	3. ruins

_"Where do you keep the popcorn?" he asked from the kitchen, and she propped her head over the armrest of the couch, huffing out a laugh._

_"It is_ literally _right in front of you."_

_He frowned."I don't see it."_

_"Look harder."_

_It was proof of how much time they had started spending together for the last months - after that fateful encounter when she found out about Sven's passing - that she had already given up on any kind of peace. He wouldn't just let it go._

_"Swaaaan."_

_(See?)_

_"You're such a baby," she complained loudly as she stomped to the kitchen, picking up the popcorn and spinning on her heel to hit him on the chest with it to drive her point home. Which happened to be right straight into his ribcage._

_She hadn't counted on him trapping her against the counter, a calculating smirk playing on the corner of his lips."Gotcha," he purred, and she stared incredulously at him._

_"Did you just_ trick _me?"_

_"I might have." And he looked annoyingly pleased with himself, which, okay, weird._

_"Here," she said, taking a bowl sitting nearby and emptying the popcorn inside. She held it out to him, but he didn't budge. She gave him a look. "Are you just… gonna stay here?"_

_"Maybe."_

_...Desperate times, desperate measures. She kicked him in the shin, ignoring his grunt of pain and running to the couch. Unfortunately, she didn't think he would recover so quickly, and before she knew it she found her wrists pinned to the armrest by one of his hands as the other held the popcorn at his mercy. He made a victorious sound, laughing at her annoyed face as he stuffed himself with popcorn._

_"Give them back."_

_He made a show of loudly chewing his next bite. "Nope."_

_"Jones…"_

_"Swan…"_

_"Give. Them. Back."_

_His chewing got to levels of obnoxiousness unknown yet to humankind. "Nuh uh."_

_"Come on," she pouted, the back of her head dropping against the back of the couch. He considered her for a moment, looking at her under his lashes, and held out a hand to her, now free of popcorn and with the sheen of the salt glinting under the lamp._

_"Come take them," he dared. Emma gaped at him._

_"You think I won't?"_

_He smirked. "I_ know _you won't."_

_"You're baiting me."_

_"What if I am?"_

_She thought of answering 'you shouldn't have', in that dramatic voice people used in movies before the final strike, but Emma was a practical woman, so she went with what her gut told her._

_Surprise element._

_She jumped him, with no time to enjoy his shocked face, and before she knew it they almost toppled over to the ground. They struggled for a while enveloped in a cacophony of muttered curses, grunts of pain and giggles, and no matter how many times you asked her, she still wouldn't be able to tell you how she and Killian ended up with her straddling his lap as he sat, and with the popcorn still out of her reach._ Damn _he had long arms. When she noticed, a whimper tore through her. "Come ON."_

_He smiled, cheeks pink and hair in complete disarray."Just ask nicely."_

_"Please may I have the popcorn?" she asked, eyes never leaving her prize - the popcorn, of course._

_He shook his head sadly. "That was fast, but insincere. Try again."_

_Huffing and still trying to immobilize him in order to get the bowl - to no avail, mind you - she asked, "Please,_ please _, with cherry on top, can you pass the popcorn?"_

_He tapped his lip. "Mmmmm. A bit of tuning and I'll give them."_

_Before she went for desperate measures again - namely, knocking him cold in order to get her food - she thought better of it. It was the nervous way in which he gulped as he squirmed under her that gave her the hint. She stayed quiet for a second, biting her lip and looking at him, and maddeningly slowly, inched closer, until her nose brushed his and his breath mingled with hers. "May I?" she asked, lowering her voice and making it as breathless as possible._

_He gulped again, and if she didn't know any better - which she did - she'd say he sounded nervous. "May I what?"_

_(Spoiler: he was.) (Nervous, that is.) (Also, probably hard.)_

_"Have the popcorn," she said, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip again, and maybe she should have thought this plan through. Was the popcorn really worth it?_

_"That all?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Nothing else that you want?"_

_"No."_

_(She hated that her voice swayed at that word.)_

_"No?"_

_(She hated that he picked up on it, that out-of-control eyebrow of his flying up his hairline.)_

_And that, friends, was the moment when Emma did something she usually didn't do. She took a one-minute decision, and there, right_ there _, she decided that yeah, the popcorn wasn't worth it._

_With a barely-there grunted "Shut up," she dove in and captured his lips with hers in a tight-lipped kiss, swallowing his gasp of surprise. Her hands fisted in his hair, angling his head just right and moving him backward until his back hit the couch. His hands cupped her face, the warmth of his lips earning a sigh of relief out of her, because no matter what she may have told her friends, her sisters, her mom - yeah, she had it bad for Jones._

_Fuck her life._

_And no matter how many times she had been kissed before, it was that one, right there, the first kiss she shared with Killian Jones that ruined her. And from the way in which goosebumps rose on his arms and the startled way in which he looked at her once they broke apart for air, he knew it too._

_And, what was more of an earth-shattering realization, it didn't scare her._

_(Well, okay, maybe a tiny bit, but. Yeah.)_

_It was difficult to be afraid when he looked at her and those dimples of his formed on his cheeks. "I've got good and bad news. The good news: we may keep making out on the couch. The bad news: I dropped the popcorn."_

_She laughed. Yeah, definitely not scared._

_"I'm going to murder you," she declared, and lunged forward for his lips again, ignoring the splattered popcorn around them because, yeah, it wasn't worth it._

 

* * *

 

 

Everything was fine.

Everything was more than fine, really. Everything was back to normal. Because nothing had changed, really. There was nothing to change. So, therefore, things were still fine.

Well, some things had changed. Emma hadn't still given Walsh an answer to his proposal, but to be fair they hadn't had the chance to talk about it with all the wedding flurry and whatnot.

(Who was she kidding, they hadn't talked about it since the Killian incident, but whatever, sue her, she wasn't going to talk about him, so there.)

Anyway, summing up: things were fine. Totally fine. Blissfully fine. She dropped Henry at school every day, at football _-soccer_  ( _dammit_ ) practice, she visited Walsh at his shop when she had a break or he needed help, and they had dinner together three times a week, one of which was takeout at her place with Henry. And she couldn't be happier that nothing had changed their routine, their lives, since the unexpected - and totally unwelcome - surprise of her ex-husband showing up at her sister's rehearsal dinner eight days earlier.

Not that she was counting or anything. But yeah, since that morning he left her apartment, she hadn't heard from him.

Not that she wanted to, mind you.

(...Except that a part from her was  _hurt_  that she hadn't. But then, what had she expected? He had left once without a word, she should be used to it happening by now.)

And so, life went on, and things were fine, and normal, and stable, Radiohead's 'Everything in its right place' level. It was Friday, and that, in Emma's everything-is-fine world, meant one of the highlights of her week.

Namely, brunch.

It was difficult to say when their weekly routine of going over to Santiago's had started, but if Emma had to guess, she'd say it was around their last year of college. Thursday nights used to be pretty epic in the party department where David, Kristoff, Killian and Graham's group of friends had been concerned, and the girls used to be dragged to a great percentage of said alcohol-filled get togethers. Needless to say, there were more than a couple of all-nighters commonly shared before getting their sorry asses to class on Friday morning, and  _the_  brunch, whether it was pre or post class, depending on their respective schedules, was born.

As mature, responsible adults, the brunch had suffered some changes, but it essentially came down to moving to a great place in Boston instead of the sorry cafeteria at campus. They normally stuck to Friday after a great amount of fighting, once they figured out the day they'd need to clear their mornings for their rendez-vous. It had become something sacred for them, and as rituals went, there were rules that were unbreakable.

For starters, nobody was allowed to miss brunch. Ever. In case anybody did, they had to turn in a written explanation for the rest of the group and they'd judge if the reason was good enough to forgive. And yes, in case you were wondering, 'I had a guy/girl/both in bed' wasn't enough for the jury.

The seating arrangement was always the same, with Graham at her right, Elsa in front of her and The Chair at her left. That meant that it was always the same amount of people at their table, and in case one of them wanted to bring a new member for brunch, he or she'd have to sit at the head of the table, aka at The Chair, suffering the scrutiny and judgement of the rest to see if they fit in the group dynamic. It made Emma feel as if they were some kind of cult, now that she thought about it.

(Walsh probably thought the same that one time he tagged along for brunch. He hadn't come back, not once, brushing it off as 'a thing for her and her friends' and that 'he got it, it is  _your_  thing'.) ( She didn't want to think about how they all, in some part of their brains, maybe did it because they knew nobody would ever fill The Chair that Killian had previously sat at when he was still around.)

Lastly, their order never changed. Which was great, because Santiago's knew the time they usually arrived at  _and_  their order, which meant that their food was practically ready by the time they got there. Mary Margaret was so thoughtful she went as far as to text the restaurant's owner to let him know when one of them would miss brunch, but then again, Mary Margaret even sent him  _Christmas cards_. Santiago reciprocated by giving her treats for Leo and drawing smiley faces and kind messages with honey on Mary Margaret's chocolate and almond croissants. Emma had even seen Santiago training some of his new employers for their brunch ritual, and to make things easier for the young kid, she had scrawled on a piece of paper their order, and it now hanged proudly behind the counter, beside pictures of Santiago's family and trinkets from the restaurant:

brunette (not mary margaret): Toasted banana bread with vanilla ricotta and raspberries

white blonde + braid: Egg white omelet with mushrooms, onions and tomatoes.

gold blonde: French toast stuffed with banana and maple syrup.

mary margaret: Chocolate and almond croissants with honey

blond guy #1: Chocolate and banana French toast

blond guy #2: Almond waffles

redhead: Peanut butter and chocolate chip pancakes

weird accent guy #1 + brown hair: Monkey bread

weird accent guy #2 + black hair: Full English fritatta with smoky beans

Kristoff and David had complained for hours, but had to agree that, as descriptions went, it was difficult to add something that would serve as a distinguishing feature to tell them apart. When Billy, the new waiter, first read the list, he stared at them for an uncomfortable minute, and Santiago shrugged, adding a 'white people, right?' for good measure.

Emma appreciated the fact that nobody asked about the crossed out member of their list.

She cheerfully waved at Billy behind the bar once she entered the restaurant, laughing as he blew her a kiss. She made her way to their table, taking note of how two of the chairs were empty and the rest of the group was happily distracted with their phones to do more than wish her a good morning. She stared at Anna and Kristoff's usual seats, and she remembered how Ingrid told her the previous night about the honeymoon in Cuba.

"How's Anna's honeymoon going?" she asked as she slipped inside her seat, tugging on her jacket sleeves and shrugging it off. Ruby, at Elsa's side, gave her a look.

"Emma, it's about time you start checking our Whatsapp group conversation. You're missing out."

Emma scowled at her. She definitely didn't feel sorry for silencing that group. If she hadn't, God knows how long her battery would last. "Every time I check it I have 200 texts, it's impossible to follow."

David shook his head, tapping the table with his fork. "Just a heads up: lots of silly pictures."

"Who would have guessed," she grumbled. She pushed her sleeves back just in case she stained them - it had happened before - and stared around her, noticing how nobody had started eating yet, and she paused. "Are we waiting for someone?"

"Just Killian," Ruby shrugged, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. As if it hadn't been three years, two months and ten days since the last time he had attended one of their brunches. She froze, hands clasping the edge of the table, unable to meet her friends' eyes.

"He's still here?"

Elsa exchanged a worried look with Mary Margaret and Ruby. "Um, I think he's staying?"

Emma saw her carefully fine, stable world crumble to pieces in front of her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

Ruby played with the ends of her hair. "I mean, you know, permanently live in this town as he usually did?"

"He mentioned he was sick of moving and the bad weather," Graham added as if it somehow explained it all. Emma felt sick, and suddenly the thought of her French toast, that usually had her drooling the entire subway ride to Santiago's, didn't sound so appealing anymore.

"It's not like Boston's is the best either," she grumbled, leaning back against the end of her booth and wishing the leather would swallow her. She ignored the concerned expressions on her friends' faces, intent on mapping the design on her phone case with her index finger. Finally, Graham spoke.

"Is it going to be a problem?"

She stared at him. "What?"

"Him being back? Are you going to like, ask us to choose a side or something?"

"Of course not." At his skeptical face, she hit his arm in annoyance. "I just don't know why he's back, and it unsettles me."

That got a rather undignified snort from Ruby, who looked at her with as much pity as she could muster. "It doesn't take much to figure out why he is, though, right?"

"Ruby…" Mary Margaret warned, and Ruby turned to gape at her.

"What? I'm just stating the obvious."

"We should maybe change subjects now - he's here," Elsa said, and Emma didn't have time to do anything but stay put in her chair and munch on her French toast while Killian joined them, grinning as he pulled out his seat.

Emma fought back a shiver at how he fit there, at The Chair, as if everything was fine now. Three years, two months and ten days and now the king had found his way back to his rightful throne.

(She  _really_  should stop watching all these knight and princesses TV shows Henry insisted on binge-watching.)

"Hey," he said, grinning.

"Hiiiiii," they all chanted too enthusiastically, and Emma bit back the urge to whimper: her friends possibly were the worst actors in the world. Killian shrugged off his leather jacket, carefully settling it on the back of his seat as he took a look around, smiling softly.

"God, I missed this place." His perusal of the bar and a cheery salute in the waiter's direction halted and he furrowed his brow at them, narrowing his eyes. "You were talking about me, weren't you."

Graham banged a fist on the table. "Damn it, Mary Margaret!"

"I literally didn't even  _blink_ , this guy is psychic!" she protested scandalized, even though Emma would agree on her being the most obvious - Mary Margaret couldn't keep a secret to save her life, and they all knew it.

Killian observed them curiously. "What were you talking about? Better let it out in the open now."

They all fidgeted on their seats, until one by one all of their gazes rested on Emma. She rolled her eyes, because  _of course_  it'd be her mess to deal with. Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him. "Just asking why you're staying after being away for so long."

Never breaking her gaze, he licked his lips. "I missed this. I missed you all. And I'm tired of being away." He paused, staring intently at her, and the tension was so ridiculously high she swore she could see actual sparks in the air. She thought she saw Ruby's nails clawing at Graham's arm, probably worried that Emma would lose it and tear Killian's face off. She needn't had worried: no matter how angry, upset or whatever it was that Killian Jones, ex-husband extraordinaire, made her feel, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of showing it. She observed him in silence, gripping her forearms tightly, until he challenged her, "That enough for you?"

She searched his gaze for whatever it was he wasn't telling her - because no matter what he said, she thought there must be something else that brought him back, that made him stay. And she was determined to find out, even if the answer wasn't what she had expected. "For now," she exhaled quietly, and without another word, picked up her fork and took another bite before her meal froze.

Thank God, the rest of the group gladly followed her example, and for a minute all that could be heard was the clattering of utensils and glasses being filled. And then, a collective beep on several phones rang out. Emma rolled her eyes, and as they all managed to stuff themselves with food with one hand and check their Whatsapp with the other.

"Oh, God." Ruby, Elsa and Mary Margaret groaned in unison, and David choked on his waffles. Graham, in a very Joey Tribbiani way, shrugged at his screen and focused on his food. Emma stared around, noticing how Killian's phone hadn't beeped either - which probably meant he had silenced the conversation too.

Huh.

Leaning closer to Graham, she took his phone and typed his code (the idiot couldn't be bothered to change it even if he knew she had cracked it years ago.) "Okay, I feel slightly left out now." She found the conversation and the apparent offending text that Anna had sent, and saw from the corner of her eye how Ruby had offered her own phone to Killian to fill him in too.

She cocked her head to the side, confused. "Is that… oh  _God_."

"Did someone forget to mention Anna she's not supposed to send these pictures," Killian muttered, hiding his face behind his hand, and that did it. They all bursted out laughing, faces flushed and hiccuping, until David recalled another time they found Kristoff in a very compromising position back in college, and the chain of stories and shared memories started.

The scene was almost familiar.

It was almost fine.

It was almost... home, she guessed.

As Ruby regaled them with a story about that time Elsa fell asleep on the bus and an old lady woke her up poking her forehead with a pen, Emma's phone beeped, reading Walsh's name on her screen.

_still on for dinner tonight?_

She looked up, finding Killian staring at her, a smile tugging on his lips, and she fought the urge to return it. She shook her head, typing back an answer just in case she caved in.

_sure, see you later._

 

* * *

 

"This doesn't make any sense," she declared, pacing around the questioning room like a caged animal. Victor Whale, the head of forensics - a guy too flirty for her own taste but quite competent at his work - studied her for a moment and then shrugged, sipping the last of his coffee.

"It does - in her head, at least."

"She's committed  _four_  crimes, Whale," she practically spat in his face, and he leaned back in his chair, and Emma realized with a jolt that he had been afraid she was going to punch him or something. She leaned against the glass panel that separated them from the criminal, one Zelena Mills, who couldn't look more smug even if she tried. It was making her stomach churn uncomfortably, especially when she thought of the victim's families she had visited earlier that morning to find out more about what had happened.

Whale came to stand beside her. "I know that. I'd never justify what she's done, but the truth is she is probably insane," he explained in a studiously calming voice. Before Emma could snap at him again, David strolled into the room.

"Hence the need to get the cavalry," he said, with said cavalry in tow. Killian cocked an eyebrow, amused, coming to stand in front of Whale.

"Cavalry? That's a new nickname."

Emma was so flabbergasted she just stood there, gaping, while Killian patted Whale's back with a friendly one-armed hug. "What are you doing here?" she finally screeched. Killian shrugged.

"Dave called me."

She turned, incensed, towards her best friend, wondering if he could read the word TRAITOR in her eyes. " _Why?_ "

David, on his part, didn't seem offended by her feeling of obvious betrayal. She knew this case had been taking a toll on him, as much as it had been to her, but she hadn't counted on him being so angry at her snapping at him. "Do you know of any other respected psychiatrists at your beck and call? Because if the answer is no then I'm stopping you right there so he can do his damn job," he practically yelled, and she saw Whale flinch in an unexpected sentiment of empathy. "Jones - what's with this woman.  _Now_ ," he growled, completely ignoring her. Killian exchanged a dubious look between the two of them, fingers toying with his belt as he always did when he was nervous.

"Well, real serial killers can be so alluring because they seem so normal, but make no mistake: they have no empathy. Either she's one hell of an actress or she didn't commit those crimes," he started in that articulate way of his. Emma knew damn well he was a valuable asset to the team; they had worked together in a handful of cases when they were still married, and years ago she would have been thrilled to count with his help, especially on a case that was giving her so many headaches.

But that was the thing. It wasn't three years ago, and she didn't want Killian and his stupid face and his stupid hands and his stupid everything in her precinct. She didn't want him nowhere near her desk, where he could see the framed pictures she kept or the flower Walsh had given her. She didn't want him there, period.

Still hurt over David's words and unsettled by Killian's appearance, she stormed off, knowing that she'd have to catch up later once Killian evaluated Zelena. She couldn't care less about the extra workload she'd have to go through: it was worth it if it meant she could get away from the situation and fume on her own for a while.

Her favorite place to do that was, as undignified as it could be, the restrooms. Finding it thankfully deserted, she ran into her favored stall and sat on the toilet, biting back a shriek of annoyance. She just didn't know how to deal with everything that was going on, and that was what upset her the most: the fact that she, Emma Swan, giving-no-fucks boss and dealing-with-crap pro, was reduced to a shaking mess in a restroom because of a man. A man that had been her lifeline a while ago, yeah, but now was just a stranger to her.

(Was he?)

A stranger who was calling her name. She bit back a scream out of sheer frustration as she heard the restroom door open, his expensive shoes echoing in the room.

"Swan," he called again, and with a curse, she stomped out of the stall, striding in his direction until she could push against his chest with as much force as she could.

"You've been out of my life for  _three years_ , without a word, and now you're fucking  _everywhere_."

He sighed. "As I said, David called. I didn't mean to upset you. He sounded worried about this Zelena woman."

She laughed bitterly, because  _bullshit_. "That's not the point. It's not just about today - the brunch, the wedding, this…" She stopped, facts, memories and dates going through her head until it all reformed to form one single question. " _Why are you here?_ "

He stared at her with wide eyes. "But David…" he started, and she stomped her foot on the tiled floor.

"No, not here in the station. 'Here' as in  _Boston_. Why now? What is your endgame? Is this some sort of ploy to get me back or something? Are you just planning to make me miserable forever?" she cried, and saw his face fall. He plopped back against the wall, exhaling heavily until his chin rested against his chest, unable to meet her gaze.

"If I had known my presence would make you miserable I wouldn't have come. I'm sorry." He paused, biting his lip. "I won't deny I wanted to see you and Henry. I told you - I missed you. I know it's too late, and I accept it, but I swear if you don't want to have anything to do with me anymore - not even a friendship - I won't bother you again."

Emma's lie detector screamed  _truth_  inside her head, and she breathed out, both in relief and anxiety. An honest, open Killian Jones was always welcome, but the fact that the truth she had wanted to hear still made her head swim with repressed feelings wasn't really what she had been looking for.

And yet, the thought of losing him again - of losing  _anything_  related to him - made her heart constrict painfully inside her chest.

"You promise?" she whispered.

"Yes."

_Truth_.

"I'll think about it," she said.

His gave her one of those hopeful smiles that once upon a time made her toes curl. "Good."

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, apparently she didn't really have to think about it. It was almost instinctual how her hand typed his number - she didn't even have to  _look up his number_ , God she was screwed - when she found herself stuck in traffic and knew she wouldn't be on time to pick Henry up from socc- _football_  (dammit) practice. She could have asked any of her friends, she could have called Walsh, she could have called her landlord, Leroy _,_ but no. She just called, and half-shrieked on the phone, and even through her hysteria she just  _knew_  he would do this for her.

For Henry. She meant for Henry, of course. He loved him like he was his own, and the feeling was mutual. Of course he'd do it for Henry, not for her. Right. Sure.

So yeah, 'I'll think about it' went flying right out of the window, she thought with a sigh, still waiting in her car and hurriedly changing stations as soon as Taylor Swift's voice told her 'you aaaare in loooove'.

She wasn't, Taylor. She soooo wasn't. She was just a desperate mom, and in need of taking desperate measures.

(She  _truly_  wasn't, Taylor.)

 

* * *

 

 

The agonizingly long drive home gave her time to think - the one she had asked him,  _ha_  - and so, when she got home, she found Henry and Killian sprawled out on the couch watching a movie. She ignored Captain Jack Sparrow as he buckled and swashed on the screen and made a face at Killian. One that she knew he'd read as 'we need to talk'. He nodded, clapping Henry on the shoulder before following her out of the apartment.

"I guess we should acknowledge the divorced elephant in the room," she said with a lame gesture of her hand, and he laughed softly.

"Nice touch, that." He observed her from under his lashes. "What do you mean?"

Passing a hand through her hair, she replayed the words she had practically learned by heart in the car earlier that day. "I told you I'd think about…" she moved her hand between them in an impatient gesture, " _this_ , and I left in a huff and slammed a door behind me, and then two weeks later I call you to please help me out with Henry, and I can understand if you're confused…"

"I'm not," he said, halting her. He shrugged. "You needed help, I was happy to be of use."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is… truce," she muttered under her breath, but loud enough for him to hear. She watched him study her, the way he always did, mapping every inch of skin, every freckle as if they were unique, feeling an undeniable pang of longing.

"Truce?" he repeated, gaining her attention from her daydreaming.

"Yeah. This is me, calling a truce."

"What does a truce actually entail, love?"

She didn't miss the way he called her that sounded like a caress as it slipped from his lips, or the way his feet shuffled as he awaited for her answer. She knew what he was doing, and desperately tried to stop him.

"It doesn't entail you calling me love, for starters."

"Too late," he chuckled, the sound soft and familiar, and another memory of that very same laugh pressed against her skin in the darkness of their room on lazy mornings none of them wanted to get out of bed. She desperately pushed the thought aside, shaking her head to clear it and a hint of impatience coloring her voice.

"Let me break it down for you. You and me. Us. A compromise. We get along. You get to spend time with Henry." Her words turned soft as she added, "He missed you."

What she didn't add.  _I missed you._

(By the way he looked at her, she wasn't sure she hadn't said it out loud and he had perfectly heard her.)

"And I him," he said under his breath, gaze roaming over her. He cocked his head to the side, considering his next words. "And you?"

"Me what?" she asked, startled.

He arched an eyebrow. "Do I get to spend time with you?"

She thought about it for a moment, considering the pros and cons.

Pros: she got to see him. Wait, no, that was supposed to be a con, right? She didn't want to see him. But her friends would probably appreciate the effort from her part... but they'd understand if she preferred to stay away too. But he'd be around if he got to see Henry, and she knew her son.

Ugh. Whatever.

"I guess so. We're all in the same group, I don't want to make everybody uncomfortable by being a bitch to you all the time," she conceded, and it wasn't too difficult to see the triumph in his eyes as he smiled to himself.

"Too right."

"But that's it. Because I'm with Walsh," she warned him, and he nodded, expression sobering.

"Of course."

They stood in silence, the scene strangely reminiscent to teenagers in front of one of their doors not knowing how to say goodbye. Her gaze flitted from her feet to her hands to her feet again to her ring finger to shoot up to his face at last. She didn't miss the way his eyes had fixed on the now mark-less and bare finger.

"So… truce," she finished before she found herself doing something she didn't want to. Like, cry, or something. An odd expression crossed his face, and then he breathed out slowly, nodding to himself.

"Truce it is."

 

* * *

 

 

Thus, a new normal began. The new normal entailed Henry spending quite some time helping Killian set his new consult, which he didn't spare details to share with her once he got home. Emma got quite the explanation as to why Killian had chosen this and that piece from a flea market they had visited the previous weekend, or a new futon from IKEA, or a couple of paintings Elsa had given him.

Emma didn't know how she felt about the new normal.

Well, to be completely, one hundred percent honest, she was thrilled to see Henry so happy. She had known that he had had a hard time with Killian leaving - almost as bad as her, but then, Henry was her son. Maybe his walls weren't a mile high, but he'd rather bite glass than let her know he was in pain just to save her some more misery. If only he had known she had been worried for him no matter his efforts to hide it. And just for the chance to see her son so excited to go hang out with Killian or the non-stop chattering about whatever it was they had gotten to that day made her almost weep with happiness.

Much like with Henry, her group of friends had also welcomed him with open arms. It was almost eerie, that feeling that overcame them whenever he was with them, as if he had never left. He'd be at brunch sitting at her left, he'd show up for movie nights at Mary Margaret and David's place with a six-pack under his arm, he'd go with them to the pub to watch the soccer match with his own jersey and cheer with Graham whenever their team scored while the rest of them ignored them and focused on their drinks. They even were already planning one of their infamous day trips on his family's boat, which had them all over the moon, as they had been obviously cancelled during his hiatus in London - also called their divorce, she bitterly reminded herself. But everybody was excited about it, and Emma was not about to be a bitch over it. She couldn't deny that, where it came to her, Killian was being quite... nice. He gave her space, which she appreciated, and didn't overstep - which she appreciated even more. He always consulted with her on everything he planned with Henry, via text or call, or just at her door when he dropped her son off (and Henry sneakily proposed him from that to time that 'hey, now that he was there, he just could stay for dinner, right mom?' with that face she couldn't just say no to). They talked. Not as much as they used to of course, not by a long shot, and obviously not about them or their former marriage, but something was something. She had found herself more than once laughing at his stupid jokes as everybody else cracked up in hysterics, and unable not to notice his pleased grin when he found her smiling because of him.

(She had missed his laugh.) (She had missed how easily he made her laugh.)

The new normal had a variable that hadn't been there before, though, and that was Walsh. And then she stopped in her train of thoughts because, woah, had she just meant the 'normal' was when Killian used to be with her, and not the three years he had been gone?

(...fuck.)

No matter if it was vocalized or not, she knew the new normal would have a try and error process of getting used to. She had known it since she had come to terms with the fact that Killian was back in their lives, for good this time - or so he said. His transition back into Henry, her friends, and even to some level her lives had been as easy as breathing, like some perfectly-oiled machine ready to go. Sadly, the new normal included quite more time than she had counted on fighting with her boyfriend.

Maybe 'fighting' wasn't the proper word to use to describe what their weird-limbo was. Failed proposal notwithstanding, it was obvious that she and Walsh were going through a rough patch. Some - mainly Ruby - would say that said rough patch had a name, and it was Killian Jones.

(Emma had to agree.)

It was also obvious from the moment they met that Walsh and Killian didn't get along. Not only that, but, as she had always resigned herself to, it was clear as day now how, even if her friends had always liked Walsh (except Graham - what a prick), he had nothing on their opinion about Killian. She knew it wasn't fair, mainly because Killian had been their friend since they were in their twenties opposed to the year they had known Walsh for, but it still stung. Add to that the bizarrely passive-aggressive comments Walsh would make here and there when Killian's name was mentioned and viceversa.

(Not to mention the fact that the sex lately was scarce and left her feeling unsettled and pretty much confused about what the hell was going on in her life.) (She wasn't your usual Cosmopolitan-reading kind of woman, but she was sure that thinking of your ex while sleeping with your current boyfriend wasn't the way to go.)

(She should see a therapist.)

(One preferably that wasn't her ex-husband.)

 

* * *

 

 

She got to the station in a mood. It was being a Very Bad Morning, and Emma didn't appreciate Very Bad Mornings. She just wasn't a Very Bad Morning's kind of person. There were people who could deal with them, but she just preferred to grumble and frown at the world like a grumpy old lady, sue her. Not only had she missed her bus, but a teenage boy had stepped on her in the rain - and hadn't even apologized, mind you - as she rushed to the station. In addition to that, she was annoyed because she had forgotten to buy her conditioner at the store that week, and she had been forced to use one that morning that she didn't particularly like, mainly because it made her curls look flat and lifeless.

And, of course, she had had a row of epic proportions with Walsh the previous night. Not the best way to go to sleep, that one.

To top her morning, as soon as she stepped in she discovered Killian rummaging around the office, studying their board with a frown and reading a bunch of papers. He was still helping out with the case, and Emma had almost grown used to his presence, but today it just served to further her anger. Of course he looked freaking flawless, Beyonce's 'I woke up like this' level of flawless, actually, with his artfully messed-up hair out of a shampoo commercial. It only made her hate him a little more.

She trudged to her chair and plopped down, throwing her bag forcefully on the floor and rubbing her temples with her still wet hands from the rain. Killian raised an eyebrow.

"Remedial cup of cocoa?" he asked, offering her favorite mug with a shy grin. She suppressed a growl, even if the thought of a warm cocoa was extremely appealing and she did love the 'Best Mom Award' duckling-themed mug Henry had gotten her for Mother's Day years ago along with a carefully pencil-colored drawing of the two of them.

It had been the most memorable Mother's Day ever.

"I'll pass," she drawled as she ruffled through the papers on her desk. Unfortunately, he insisted - as he always did, because by definition, Killian Jones was a Pain in the Ass - and perched himself on the edge of her desk.

"Bearclaw?"

"I already ate."

He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply as if asking for patience. The gesture made her think of all those times she had insisted she was not mad when she most certainly was and he'd trail behind her, badgering her until she finally, finally exploded and yelled at him for whatever reason it was. He claimed that was the best way to go - because 'she got all flushed and bothered, and admitted the truth and they could get to the making up by having sex part, huh?', Jones dixit.

Wasn't she a lucky wife.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and she closed one of the binders littering her desk shut.

"I'm fine."

He huffed. "Try that again."

"Drop it, Jones," she snarled, and in order to avoid him, decided to focus all of her attention on the screen of her computer. Those reports for the Mills case were piling up after taking her into custody, and between Killian's evaluation and the analysis results from forensics she was due a shitload of work for the weekend. Bye bye to that evening lazing around with Henry, hello work.

She had almost forgotten about the ex-husband sitting a feet from her, drumming with his fingers on the desk as if he had nothing else to do with his time. Except bothering her.

"Swan, may I have a word?"

"No."

"Mature."

With a glare she swore could melt him to the ground, she pushed him off the desk with a growl until he was on his feet. "I said  _drop it_. I have a job to do."

She resumed her typing - nonsensical stuff, really, 'suspect did this' and 'victim's relative confirmed that' nonsense that she'd have to revise once she wasn't being haunted by an ex-husband on a mission to make her life impossible, but fake it 'til you mean it and all that, right?

It'd have been a great plan, if one Killian Jones had gotten the hint and moved that pretty arse of his out of her sight.

He didn't.

Instead, he murmured an annoyed "Okay, that's it" and took her by the hand, ignoring her offended protests to let  _her fucking go you idiot_  and dragging her out of the office and into the closest empty questioning room.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" She shook herself free from his grasp, spinning on her heel and hitting him on the chest. "Stop manhandling me."

"What is it? What is wrong? Is it Henry?" He said, eyes widened and almost panicked. She sighed, exhausted all of a sudden because of course he'd think it was Henry. She hated that a part of her melt at the fact that he still cared so much about her son to the point that he'd make such a fuss to find out if something was up with him.

She sagged against the windowpane, closing her eyes. "It's nothing."

"Emma, please."

"It is nothing of your concern, Jones, so back. Off."

Massaging her temples tiredly, she shook her head and started walking out of the room, thinking that now that he knew it had nothing to do with Henry he'd leave her alone.

"Is this about monkey face?"

...She clearly had talked too soon.

Looking at him over her shoulder, she couldn't help but rolling her eyes. "And you call me the immature one."

He stepped towards her, searching her face. "Is that why you're angry? Because you feel guilty for stringing him along?"

Emma's heart stopped beating for a second to then pick up a furious stacatto against her chest. Her mouth went dry, and she had to clear her throat before she answered with a question of her own. "What the hell did you just say?"

"You heard me," he challenged. She felt herself flush in anger: it was the way in which he said it - so freaking sure of himself, dripping with contempt, the way she had once hated when he still slept around campus with bimbos, way before getting to know him.

She also didn't want to tell him that the argument with Walsh the previous night had been about him, and about her feelings, and about the unanswered proposal. He didn't need to know that. Not now, not ever.

"I don't remember asking your opinion, so you can shove it up your ass."

He gave her that look - the one that said 'you're cute when you're trying to lie'. "You're mad at yourself."

She made a sound between a snort and a snarl. "Right now I'm mad at you so I'd suggest you stop talking."

He moved closer to her, and she stepped back until she was trapped against the desk in the middle of the room. "You're mad because you don't love him, and you can't make yourself love him."

Emma couldn't believe what she was hearing. Giving him an incredulous look, she said, perplexed, "Is that what you really think?"

The asshole had the audacity to  _smirk_. "Open book, remember?"

Her throat felt even drier than before. She took a second to drink him in, and noticed how his hands seemed to be shaking. "And you think I'm not in love with him because I love  _you_  instead?"

Her words brought an odd expression to his face, that he carefully collected. He shook his head with a long exhale, turning to look at her again. His eyes had darkened in a way that reminded her of too many times he had cornered her against any flat surface he could find and have his way with her. When he spoke, his voice was serious and uncharacteristically soft. "I don't think - I  _know_  you aren't in love with him. At least not the way you used to love me."

Emma felt her pulse quicken of its own accord, and a strange sensation took over her stomach, as if some creature was in there trying to claw its way out, Alien-style.

Emma had always hated Alien.

"You conceited son of a bitch," she spat, furious all over again.

His smirk widened, and his face inched closer until his breath mingled with hers. "At least I'm not giving hope to someone I don't have feelings for."

Her hands acted on its own accord, because all she could see or think was red. But before her palm made contact with his face, his hand had gripped her wrist, stopping it in mid-air. He tutted, narrowing his eyes in her direction. "That only worked that time, Swan," he recalled aloud, voice trembling with rage, and a vivid memory of a slap in their apartment during a fight formed in her mind; his offended face, the tears and apologies that followed.

A blonde curl swayed in front of her eyes, and she belatedly realized that they were inches apart, their bodies practically touching. Her eyes flicked up at his, searching his face. His hand was holding hers, the skin warm and soft against her skin; and the other was braced at her side on the desk, caging her against it. If she moved just an inch, their noses would brush, and she just knew if she came close enough, if her hand moved to hold his waist and she bit her lip in the way he'd never been able to resist, then he'd bend his head enough for their lips to touch, and then all hell would break lose.

Because fuck, she still wanted him. She wanted him bad. Her body thrummed with the need for him to just touch her, and she could see in the way his eyes darkened that his thoughts weren't that far ahead. Adrenaline coursing through her veins, she felt both thrilled and terrified, and still feeling the warmth of his breath mingling with hers, she bit her lip.

Killian groaned, and she closed her eyes, lips parted, waiting for the assault.

To her surprise, it never came.

His forehead touched hers, but his lips were a minimally safe distance from hers. "I won't kiss you so you can blame me for your relationship with monkey man falling apart," he murmured, and exhaled slowly, closing his eyes shut, as if the thought physically pained him. "Or worse - so you can hate yourself."

Something pulled at her heartstrings at the sight of him, so wrecked and so decisive, and then his words hit her.

_So you can hate yourself._

It was haunting, the way he knew her. How he knew the pull she felt to him would eventually mean she'd pull away afterwards, finding a reason to blame him and herself. She hated how he could read her, how he knew the words to her heart - to her very soul. His fingers still held her wrist, and she felt like lightning was dancing where their skin touched; something she wasn't exactly sure she wanted to identify yet.

"But you want to kiss me," she said in a voice so low it was as if she was talking to herself. She heard Killian sigh, and then he slipped a hand beneath her chin and tilted it up so that he could see her face, even when she stubbornly kept her eyes lowered beneath her lashes, not wanting to meet his gaze.

"I have never stopped wanting to kiss you, love."

She didn't wait to find out more.

In typically lost girl fashion, she ran.


	4. the fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i know i knooooow i'm so sorry for the lateness of this update, i'm actually ashamed of myself but as i have explained in several asks on tumblr, a) life has been a mess and extremely busy, b) i wanted the end of this story to be worthy and didn't want to fuck it up c) i wasn't in the emotional mindset needed to write this story without feeling the need to self-insert myself in emma's shoes and it was the last thing i wanted to considering the circumstances. i hope you understand, and that you enjoy the end of this story :)

_"_ _Hey." She cautiously made her way towards him until she could rest her hands on his shoulders and drop a kiss on his hair. He didn't acknowledge her, though, and kept staring at the harbor in front of them as she rounded the bench and sat at his left. "I thought I might find you here."_

_He still didn't say a thing, the tightening of his jaw the only sign that he had even heard her. "You never showed up for lunch," she added, sneaking a hand inside her purse to take a Mars bars out and wave it in front of his face._

_He sighed, finally taking it and playing with the wrapped paper in his hands, wind whipping around them. "I'm sorry."_

_She patted his arm. "It's okay. Henry wasn't too upset - more pasta for him."_

_The crunching sound of plastic being handled by shaking fingers was the only thing that could be heard for the next several minutes as Killian made good work of the candy bar, while Emma spent an equal time staring at the calming sight of the water ahead of them and sneaking glances at her husband._

_"_ _Anna was asking about you," she said as an afterthought once he finished eating._

_He said nothing._

_"_ _Do you want to tell me what's wrong, or am I gonna have to guess?"_

_Killian smiled bitterly. "Is there a third option in which we just don't talk about it?"_

_"_ _You've been using that card for the past month," Emma countered with an arched eyebrow._

_Killian huffed. "You're too perceptive for your own good."_

_"_ _It isn't too difficult to guess when you're acting so weird."_

_Sighing somberly, his hand reached out to take hers, his index finger stroking her wedding ring without saying a word._

_She knew there was something wrong, but she didn't want to admit that to him. She wanted him to tell her, dammit. They were married for a reason, right? Wasn't that what married couples were supposed to do? Tell each other what was bothering them so they could work on their issues?_

_Or at least that was what she had always thought how it all worked. How they_ had _worked until then._

_She let out a sigh and clamped her free hand around his. "Killian, please. I'm worried about you. Everybody is."_

_The wind fanned her hair into both of their faces, and she wondered how in any other day her husband would have found this amusing, covertly using blond strands of hair to hide his eyes and wear as a fake moustache just to make her laugh. Today, though, he didn't even seem to notice. His attention solely focused on her arm, and the gentle touching of her wedding band now switched to the scar on her forearm, and she tensed._

_He met her eyes for the first time since she had found him sitting on that bench that morning. "Do I have to spell it out for you?"_

_She batted his arm away, brushing his concerned eyes off. "Killian, I'm completely fine."_

_"_ _I know you are."_

_"_ _If that's true, then what is this about?"_

_Her voice rang out louder than she had expected, making a seagull that had been wandering close to their bench in search of leftover pieces of bread on the ground fly away, startled._

_Killian huffed. "I don't know. If you're so goddamn perceptive why don't you tell me?"_

_"_ _There's no need to use that tone with me."_

_His gaze met hers, now hard and angry. "You're damn right about that, there's no need. But your beloved husband is so fucked up after what happened that he can't physically bring himself to stop from snapping at the woman he loves."_

_She inhaled sharply, memories flooding her brain in a wave of pain and fear that she had tried to block for the past weeks. David's panicked voice through her walkie, the frantic search, the open fire, their mark running for his life in the dead of the night through a maze of warehouses._

_The pain. Killian's pleas for her to stay with him._

_She shook herself back to the present, ignoring the shudder going through her at the memories assaulting her. "Stop Shakespearing me and tell me what's wrong," she snapped angrily._

_His tone matched hers. "What's wrong is that you almost_ bled out _on me, Swan."_

_There was a pregnant pause that Emma was terrified to break._

_She broke it anyway._

_"_ _But I didn't," she whispered brokenly._

_"_ _Yeah, you didn't, but you almost did." It seemed like all the fight left him as he slumped on the bench, hands cradling his head with a look of pure exhaustion. He turned to peer at her inquisitively. "Do you want me to tell you a story?"_

_Oh no._

_"_ _Killian…" she started with no avail._

_"_ _You asked me to tell you what's wrong, so here it goes. It's about something that happened to me ten years ago."_

_"_ _Please, you don't…" she started, but he kept going as if he hadn't heard her._

_"_ _The woman I loved before you bled out in my arms. That's right."_

_The grating noise of a siren in the distance eerily echoed behind them for several minutes, almost mocking them for their conversation, and she had to suppress a shiver. "But I didn't. I'm okay," she finally whispered, trying to catch his gaze. She was trying really hard not to let his words tear her apart, but taking in the way his voice caught and the emotion clogged in it was making it truly difficult._

_She remembered all about the story behind Milah's death. It had taken a while for Killian to share it with her once they started dating, but somehow they ended up telling each other everything about their respective pasts. Emma had opened up about her childhood being bounced around foster homes, Neal's betrayal and the struggle once she decided to keep Henry._

_She could feel moisture gathering at the corner of her eyes, but didn't bother to rub at her eyes. Killian noticed this, and letting out a heavy sigh, he wrapped his hand around hers._

_"_ _You are. But the thing is, it could happen. Any day."_

_She swiveled towards him, her jaw tightening in annoyance. "Anything could happen every damn day, Killian. You could get hit by a bus, I could have a stroke, someone could shoot David on the chest–anything. We're human, not gods."_

_"_ _Don't you think I know this? I just can't stop feeling this way, okay?"_

_He was breathing like he'd run a damn marathon, passing a hand through his hair and disheveling it even more than it usually was. Emma searched something in his expression that would question his motives, but found nothing but distress._

_"_ _You're not asking me to quit my job because it's too dangerous, are you?" She asked quietly, and he shook his head, chuckling mirthlessly and giving her a disbelieving look._

_"_ _Of course not. For starters, I'd never tell you what to do with your life, I've never done it and I won't stop doing it now." He played with his fingers, as if he had no idea what to do with them now that they were resting on his bent knees. "And then there's the thing that as you so eloquently put, I could lose you no matter how dangerous your job is."_

_She quietly mulled over his words, staring at him with a frown. "So this is all a crisis over mortality?"_

_"_ _Don't joke about this, Swan," he growled._

_"_ _I'm not," she snapped back. "I've lost people in my life too."_

_"_ _I know," he murmured quietly. She looked back at his long, nimble fingers. "But the way I feel about you… I didn't think, after Milah, that I'd ever feel the same for anybody else. You don't know what it's like, to see their very soul as life flees their bodies. I would never wish that kind of pain on anybody, not even my most hated enemy." He exhaled loudly, clasping a hand over his face and rubbing it tiredly, and Emma's fingers itched to pry them away. "I wouldn't be able to survive that, Emma," he declared in a murmur._

_And the sad thing was that she understood him. She did, but at the same time couldn't really feel the same. If she did, she wouldn't be able to live her life, to give Henry the life he deserved, to properly let herself feel alive. And that was something that Killian should be able to do, if not for himself, then for her, for them._

_"_ _We'll work it out," she promised him, and he gave her a tremulous smile, letting her fingers link with hers and her lips press against his temple tenderly._

* * *

 

Two weeks later found Emma at the station, helplessly punching her keyboard as she studied report after report, names and dates dancing before her eyes. She just couldn't figure out this case, there was too much happening and she felt like she was missing something.

"So, um, how are things with Walsh?" David asked in an attempt to sound nonchalant.

He failed.

"Fine." The words left her mouth before she even had time to question what to say; or even if they were truthful or not. David seemed to catch on that, because he gave her a disbelieving look and frowned.

"That's reassuring."

She huffed quietly, shuffling papers that didn't need to be shuffled but as long as it got her hands busy and her gaze away from David's she didn't mind much. She could always rearrange them back later. "What else do you expect me to tell you? It's not like I ask you details of your dates with your wife."

In response, David just scratched his neck, mumbling something under his breath, and Emma rolled her eyes.

"You guys are such a bunch of gossips. What the hell did Killian tell you?"

He didn't answer her for a beat, until he plopped down in the chair in front of her desk, sighing in defeat. "He didn't say a word. I… heard."

Emma froze. "You heard?"

"And saw," he added, shame creeping into his tone. Emma gaped in horror, and he quickly put his hands up in defense. "It was an accident!"

"You were spying on us? What is this, high school all over again?" She wondered aloud, and David appeared properly chastened.

"You were in the questioning room," he finally explained, and Emma stared at him.

"So what?"

He shrugged. "The mirror."

Her limbs froze, and she sat there, gaping at nothing, thinking back of how Killian had dragged her into the questioning room, where of course there was the standard double mirror from which other agents could see the procedural questioning without being seen.

One would have thought she'd have been prepared for this, but alas, she wasn't.

Huh.

"Oh." She felt her cheeks flushing, and she cursed herself, but if what he was telling her was true, then he may have seen way more than she had been prepared to. "You could have _not stayed_ , you know."

"I only caught the end of the conversation," he told her, and she cringed again at his impeccable timing. "Was what he said true?"

"He said a lot of things."

"That you're not in love with Walsh."

She stayed silent, adamant on not saying anything that might give away her more than messed up feelings about that topic in particular. It wasn't like she had spent the last few days driving herself batshit crazy or anything, no sire.

"I'm not having this conversation," she sighed in the end.

"Who are you gonna have this conversation with then?"

She snorted loudly. "I don't know, with _anybody_ who won't be wearing the 'please forgive Killian' club member badge!"

"That's not fair."

She swiveled on her chair so she was facing him, pursing her lips in an angry scowl as her hands gripped the arms of the chair with a strength she hadn't counted on. "You know what's unfair? Being left behind by your bastard of a husband and not contacted with for _three years_ , have supporting friends who've been for you for all that time and suddenly, when said bastard comes back, you all welcome him with open arms!"

David looked like he'd been slapped. Shaking his head, he stepped towards her, a frown touching his forehead. "Emma, do you honestly believe that?"

"Is it not the truth?" She said as she crossed her arms over her chest. David sighed, rubbing his temples wearily.

"We only forgave Killian after we heard what he had to say."

Emma frowned. "When the hell did you do that?"

David looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Emma felt for him. "That trip we had two and a half years ago?"

"Yeah?"

"We actually went to see Killian," he admitted, and Emma felt the tendrils of betrayal grip her hard.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Just in case it turned ugly. And of course we didn't want to hurt you."

"But…"

David threw his hands up in the air. "Emma, we went to get answers."

Emma froze, thinking back to how well-received Killian had been since the moment he had come back. The hugs, the friendly punches to the arm, the recovery of their former banter and weekly routines. "You would have forgiven him no matter what, would you?" she whispered, voice insecure and broken.

David sighed, striding towards her until he could sit by her side on the desk and letting his hand cover hers, just like those days after Killian left and he'd sat in silence, offering her companionship and support in the best way he could - and she would let him. "I can't answer that. We're all friends, but there are some things that one can't just simply ignore. Maybe we would have still been friends, but to be 100% honest? It wouldn't have been the same." He paused, letting out a breath. "Just so you know, we still gave him hell, believe me. I'm not proud of this, but as soon as he opened the door I punched him in the face."

Emma looked at him warily. "Why?"

He shrugged, as if it was no big deal. "Because he hurt you, and it was killing us." He looked at her from the corner of his eye, tapping her knuckles softly with his fingers. "It killed him too." She didn't say anything, so he kept talking as if he hadn't just told her how miserable Killian had apparently been after he disappeared from their lives. "He didn't complain. About the punch, I mean. Not even once. He was expecting it, actually."

"David…" she started, but he went on.

"We're all friends, and we're family. He deserved a chance to explain, and I know you don't wanna hear it, but maybe you should talk to him about it."

She frowned. "We did."

His eyebrow flew up his forehead. "You did?"

"At the wedding," she explained, and at David's frown, she told him about that night. About Killian interrupting her dance with Walsh. About his words, about that day in their bench. About him admitting they both ran.

(She didn't tell him about her confessing she didn't want to run anymore.) (That was better left just for Killian and her.)

David stayed silent through her story, but once she finished, he passed a hand through his face, scratching at the barely-there scruff. "I don't want to be that person, but believe me, that… wasn't really talking," he finally pointed out, and Emma fought an eyeroll. As much as she loved David, sometimes he could believe himself a therapist where he had no business trying to.

"Then what was it?"

He gave her a look. "I don't know, you tell me. Are you really satisfied with that tiny conversation? With that explanation?"

"But I know what he meant," she explained, and this was why she didn't want to have this conversation. It was her and Killian's business, after all, not anybody else's.

She couldn't remember seeing David so out of sorts before. "Sure, but every time you've ever played out that conversation happening in your head for the past three years… was it at your sister's wedding, dancing, and without one single shout and over in a minute?" he asked, and Emma scowled automatically in response, the need to defend herself overpowering her.

"We've screamed at each other enough for the past weeks."

"Maybe. Maybe not," he said, still giving her that penetrating gaze that Emma had always hated. For all his sweet, naive kind of puppy exterior, David could give Killian a run for his money in the therapy business. "I'm just trying to help you out here, Emma."

She sighed, letting her head fall on the table and knocking it on the wood. "I know."

David walked closer to her and snatched one of the chairs on the desk behind Emma's, pulling it until it was sitting by hers. "So. Are you in love with Walsh or what?" Before she could know how to even start answering _that_ , he added, "It's okay if you don't know."

She decided to ask a question of her own instead of answering his. "Do you think I am?"

He studied her silently, eyes never leaving hers as he pursed his lips in consideration. "I don't say this to be mean, but..." he started nervously, and Emma gave him some sort of encouraging chin-jerk so he'd go on. "I've only seen you in love once, and it wasn't with a furniture shop owner."

Emma hadn't truly thought the verbalization of her feelings by one of her closest friends would make a big difference in the overall big scheme of things. She had feared the truth, way before today, even way before Killian confronted her in that questioning room. It didn't make her eyes sparkle or her hands shake; it just brought a sort of calmness and resignation over her.

"At least you didn't say anything about him looking like a monkey," Emma murmured sadly.

David snorted, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, that's what I imagined."

They stayed like that for a while, just the two of them mulling over their thoughts.

"You know what's the worst part?" She finally asked, and David looked at her from the corner of his eye.

"What?"

"I hate when he's right," she admitted with a sigh, and David's arm tightened around her, dropping a light kiss on her forehead and not needing to ask who they were talking about.

* * *

No matter what Pottermore had told her and Henry when they took the stupid quiz, Emma had always questioned her sorting as a Gryffindor. Not that she wasn't happy with the sorting itself, but she'd always kind of doubted herself. Today of all days, she was having one of those days: maybe because she'd spent the last two weeks doing everything but confronting Killian. She came up with every excuse in the book in order not to see him - and if there was no way to avoid him, she kept it short and concise so he'd get the hint.

After her conversation with David, she knew she had to make things right and leave everything on the table.

But anyway, enough with the nerd inner monologue: there she was. No matter how long it'd taken her to put on her big girl pants, she had finally taken the car and driven to Killian's and ridden the elevator up and knocked on his door before she could chicken out.

No time to get out now.

It didn't take long for him to open, dressed in his pajama pants and a t-shirt she recognized from one of their trips to Disney World, sporting a hole near his collarbone.

"Swan? What are you doing here?" Killian asked, bewilderment clear on his face. Emma braced herself, arms coming around her own torso as if by the simple gesture she could hold everything in - every feeling, every doubt, every fear.

"Can I come in?"

"Of course. Make yourself at home." As soon as the words left his mouth he winced, and his hand came up to scratch the back of his neck. Yeah, 'home'. Right. "I mean…"

"I know what you mean," she said, and followed him inside as he closed the door behind her. Curiosity got the best of her as she peeked around his new house, taking in the pale blue furniture, the framed pictures, the artwork and nautical décor he'd die before giving up. "Nice place," she commented, lightly touching a glass bottle with a handful of seashells. Killian smiled fondly.

"Thanks. Though of course I can't take all the merit - everything has the Henry Swan seal of approval, or else."

"Or else," she repeated with a chuckle. He looked at her, lips still curled up in a soft smile. She cleared her throat after what felt like a touch too long meeting his stare, and she thought she heard him exhale loudly before he walked briskly in the direction of the kitchen.

"Would you perhaps want something to drink?"

She hesitated, thinking back on what she had come to talk to him about. Maybe a drink wouldn't be the worst idea in the world.

"By your face I'm gonna go with rum," he surmised, and before she could protest - even though she had silently agreed on the liquid courage - he had picked up two glasses from an upper shelf.

"What does my face have to do with anything?"

As he found the rum bottle under the sink, he gave her a look as he poured them a generous drink. "It's your 'I'm gonna brace myself for a fight' face, love." She didn't say anything to that, because as it turned out, he was right. As per usual. Damn him. He let out a soft chuckle as he approached her with her glass, offering it to her. "I'm also counting on it halting you from attacking me if things go south."

She accepted it with a smirk. "I could also throw it at you."

"I'll take my chances," he shrugged, clinking it to hers.

He motioned towards the couch, and she followed him there, gingerly sitting at his side and sipping from her glass, enjoying the burn of the alcohol on her throat. She caught him staring at her from the corner of her eye, but didn't move, preferring to swirl the remains of the rum on the pretty glass she was sure she'd heard Mary Margaret compliment once.

It didn't take long for him to fire. If anything, Killian had never been the patient sort when it came to confrontation or big talks. He clapped his knee with his free hand and turned towards her. "So. I'm all ears."

She left the glass on his low table, fearing she might knock it down at some point of the conversation slash fight, and stared at it as she uttered her prime question.

"Why."

He frowned. "Beg your pardon?"

She willed her voice not to waver. "Why did you leave?"

That made him pause, giving him time to stare at her square in the eye, something haunted and dark pooling in his gaze. "You know why."

She shook her head. "If I knew I wouldn't be here asking, trust me."

"But.. I told you."

"You actually didn't," she said, recalling her talk with David. She had mulled it over at home since then, in the quiet hours of night once Henry had gone to bed after they'd had dinner and watched a movie together. She had gone through every word exchanged between Killian and her since he'd come back to Boston: at the rehearsal dinner, at the wedding, at the station, with their friends, with Henry. No matter what he had shared with her at the wedding while they danced, pressed together and voice low in her ear, it wasn't enough. No matter how she felt what he had said, how she knew what the point had been, she still needed to hear it.

He bit his lip, considering her quietly. "I thought you understood. Back at the wedding."

She was tempted to gulp back the rest of her rum, but in a surprising move she just whirled on her side so she could stare at him fully. "Killian, I need you to say it. Don't you see?" She passed a hand through her hair, catching some unruly tangles from the ride over with the lowered window as she tried to tell herself it was alright, it was fine, it was just her and Killian talking, and she needed to do it. For herself. For Henry. For them to move on. "I need answers. I've been waiting _three years_ for answers. I've spent three years wondering what the hell I might have done wrong to drive you away from me - from _us_. If there was something I could've done to make you reconsider, to bring you back. If it was somebody else. If you wondered about me, if you even thought about me at all. If you regretted it. I need to know if you missed me too, or if you ever did at all." Her voice caught, but she still went on, not minding how it shook or how her nose scrunched up as she tried and failed to suppress a hiccup. "If I'm beyond fixing because I'm incapable of being loved unconditionally." She stopped to catch a breath, closing her eyes for the first time since she finally, _finally_ opened herself so he could see how badly she craved a true explanation. "I need answers. The whole story, and not a vague mention of something we addressed at the wedding. It's not enough. Not for me, anyway."

She hadn't even realized she had started crying until he reached out and wiped a tear away from her cheek, the pad of his thumb caressing her skin with a tenderness that made her let out a soft gasp. She closed her eyes, but didn't pull away.

"I'll never forgive myself for hurting you," he whispered brokenly. Emma looked at him through blurry eyes, but still went on. She didn't know what to do with herself - with themselves - anymore but to try to put a stop to this shipwreck that was their emotional breakdown.

"The only way for me to stop hurting is for us to let it all out. For good."

The corner of his mouth tilted up in a mirthless smile, devoid of the warmth it usually had whenever it was directed at her. "You're right, as always." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "That day, at the docks…"

"I remember," she said, voice soft. He looked over at her, and she noticed the way his hand curled into a fist.

"You… You had almost died on me, Emma. And I could do nothing about it, no matter all those years in med school. I almost lost you."

She stopped herself from crying out loud. "But I didn't," she barely choked.

"And I thank God for that every single day of my miserable life." He inhaled sharply, hands curling into fists on their knees as if he couldn't really control them. He dropped his gaze towards them. "It still doesn't change the fact that for the second time in my life, the love of my life almost slipped away in my arms." He paused for a moment, and she saw him swallow, as if his next words were too hard for him to speak. "You know what happened with my mother, with Liam, with Milah."

She did, indeed. She remembered hearing each story, some shared in a dark corner of a pub in between pints of beer, others tangled in their sheets, others under a blanket on his couch, another in her yellow bug when he accompanied her on a stakeout. She had stroked his head while he wept in her lap, soothed him, shushed him, and wrapped her arms around him until he finally caved in and went to sleep. He'd lost so much, almost as much as her: a proper chance at a happy childhood, the love of their respective parents, and loved ones that had either slipped away or been taken away too soon.

Emma's parents had abandoned her barely hours after she was born. Killian's mother died by his side on the bed, when he could do nothing but hug her chest pleading her not to go. Emma had never had siblings, except maybe that boy who'd stuck with her in a dozen foster homes, August, until she found out one day he'd scampered away with some other kids to God knows where. Liam had taken care of Killian for years, had protected him and taken care of him when their deadbeat of a father left them for good, and still, in the end, he also left him when a mission in the Navy went awry. And then, of course, Milah. Milah, whom Killian insisted Emma would have adored, who had brought him out of his shell after his family had been gone, who had loved him back as fiercely as he had adored her.

She knew it all.

"I do," she whispered.

Killian nodded somberly, still not meeting her eyes. "And I… After Milah, I swore I'd never go through that, not ever. I'd never get close enough to somebody to the point that I'd be broken beyond repair If I lost them." He stopped himself, barely able to catch his breath, but seemingly found the will to stare back at her. "I hadn't counted on falling for this brilliant, amazing blonde, though." His gaze turned soft and wondering, his right hand coming up to reverently touch the curl that hung over her face to put it behind her ear. "You were the variable, the unexpected in my carefully-crafted plan. It was impossible to fight the urge to love you and Henry." He paused, hand falling back to his lap as he bit his lip in consternation, grimacing as if in physical pain. "And then I almost lost you, and I… I left."

Emma gaped. And gaped. And then gaped some more. She had never truly believed those 'he left me speechless' sayings, mainly because Emma Swan always had something to say: a smartass response, a witty quip, or at the very least, an indignified snort or an eye-roll. But here she was: quiet, unmoving and apparently beyond any speech capacity.

There was always a first time for everything.

And this, exactly, was one of those times. Because for the life of her, she couldn't recall any other time she'd ever experienced this complete and utter desolation.

And she finally recovers herself, sees light, finds Nirvana, you call it.

"That's the ultimate bullshit I've ever heard in my entire life, and I question criminals on a daily basis," she finally said, and he hang his head in shame.

"I know."

She suddenly leapt up from the couch, pacing back and forth, arms flailing wildly around her. "You just - you left! With no explanation!"

He sighed once more. "I know."

She froze, her hand flying to her throat and tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. "You broke my heart! You… how could you even look at yourself in the mirror after that?" Her voice came out strangled and watery, almost choked with grief, as if the pain of all those years came running back to her in an instant. "Wasn't I worth an explanation at least? Or a goodbye? A fucking note?"

She was astonished to find his eyes equally watery. "You'd have burned it."

"Because it'd still be bullshit," she exclaimed, incensed. "I didn't die Killian! Get over it! I'm fine, alive and kicking, and you left me because you were afraid of getting hurt if you lost me? How is that fair?"

He passed a hand through his hair, and she belatedly noticed that it was shaking. "It's not. It's anything but."

She stopped herself from keeping screaming at him and doing anything stupid. Stepping backwards until her back pressed against the wall so she could steady herself, she met his gaze from across the room. "Then why didn't you stay away for good?"

It didn't seem like he was going to answer her, not at first either way. But then, all the fight slipped out of him, almost tangibly to Emma's eyes, and he slumped on the couch.

"Because I was a moron. A weak moron."

"Moron doesn't even come close to what you are."

On another day he might have chuckled, no matter how full of self-hatred or despair he might have been. Today he didn't even find the will to acknowledge her words. "I was a coward. And I have had three years to mull over how much I'd mucked it all up, since the moment I up and left I knew. But still, I did, and I can't go back in time and change it, tempted as I am." His head raised slowly, until his desperate eyes, full of longing, met hers. "But I came back, eventually."

"Once you grew a backbone," she whispered, and she wouldn't know if her voice shook due to rage or grief. Killian saw this, _knew_ this, knew _her_ : He had been in more than one fight with her to recognize the signs: when she was about to throw something at him, when he'd be able to get away with it once he could spy the smile threatening to pull at her lips, when she was about to break.

Right now? She was about to break, and that brought him to his feet, cautiously making his way towards her.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, Emma. God knows I can't even forgive myself," he declared, face contorted in a pained grimace as he shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Emma."

In that moment, all Emma could think about was how David had been right.

She had needed to hear this. To see Killian and ask these things, hear him spell it out for her, witness how it'd brought him to hell and back to leave her –to leave them– behind, just as it had almost killed her to have him gone from their lives.

What she hadn't counted on - or what she had insisted on telling herself - was what the outcome would be.

Her voice wavered. "You _broke_ me."

Silence.

And then: "I thought I was protecting myself, when the truth is I was just throwing away the best thing I'd ever had."

She wiped away the tear that had managed to run free down her cheek with a quick gesture of her hand. "It was pretty good."

"It really was," he agreed, and she cursed the soft hiccup that trampled the end of his sentence. She bit her lip so hard she could feel the soft skin tugging, followed by a piercing pain. "I'm so mad at you," she whispered.

"You should be," he croaked. In a handful of steps he was right there, standing in front of her, hands hovering over her sides. "At least you didn't throw the glass at me," he commented, a chuckle that turned into a sorrowful sound Emma didn't want to hear ever again. Her left hand wiped her face, smearing her mascara farther, and with the other she laced his fingers with hers.

"Don't tempt me," she managed to say, and then she broke.

But, as he had always done before he left, he was there to catch her, hugging her to him with the care and warmth she had craved since the first time he held her. And they cried. Cried until their voices almost went out, until their chests heaved and hurt, cried for the broken promises, the lost years and the gone dreams.

* * *

 

Emma hadn't counted on the awkwardness haunting her during the date she had that following weekend with Walsh. She still hadn't really come to terms with the fallout of her tête-à-tête with Killian –if you could even name it that, instead of emotional rollercoaster.

That being said, awkwardness withstanding, the date itself wasn't going half bad. 68% awkwardness, 32% nice, maybe. And that if she counted her appraisal of the awkwardness, because who knew, maybe Walsh hadn't even noticed, right? The dinner had been nice, the conversation hadn't gone too stilted, and they were having a glass of wine together on the couch while they watched some Friends reruns on the TV, so, all in all, not a complete disaster.

Maybe this was all in her head. Maybe it was all her, period.

...Maybe she needed more wine.

"Do you want something else to drink?" Emma asked him, standing from the couch where she had sat not quite that close to him just in case he wanted to get handsy. Maybe he could have not done anything, but she did anyway. Instead she moved out of the way, and as she approached the fridge she heard him swivel on the couch so he could follow her movements.

"I'm fine. You, on the other hand, are clearly not."

She frowned as she poured another round on her now empty glass. "What?"

The corner of his lips tilted up in an unhappy smile. "You're literally crawling away from me."

Fuck.

"I'm not," she countered, and inwardly cringed at the childish retort. Seriously, Emma?

He chuckled. "Okay. Let's say you're not skittish as hell around me - even if it is the truth. Let's talk about Henry then." He paused, and settled his unwavering gaze on her. "And Killian," he added, almost challengingly.

She sat beside him once more. "What about them?"

"You called him to drive him to football practice when you were in New York."

"So?" And before she could think about it she corrected as if on autopilot: "And it's soccer."

He cocked an eyebrow, almost as if her last comment proved his point, and shook his head. "You usually call me."

"It was a one time thing."

She almost cringed at the expression, which instead made her mad, because, as it were, there had been nothing between Killian and her since his return. A lot of verbal lashing, a proper argument, an emotional breakdown, and an almost-something in the interrogation room, but nothing more, nothing else.

But then, even after talking to David… she still was here, in a date with a man who she wasn't in love with. So.

Huh.

Walsh observed her, a frown marring his forehead. "It doesn't look like that to me. He still is doing stuff for you, and not just because he offers, but because you ask him to."

"Walsh…" she started, thinking back to the times she had actually called Killian, texted him for help, begged him to stay with Henry, help her to find the perfect gift for Mary Margaret and David's anniversary.

Walsh went on as if he hadn't heard her - or hadn't wanted to. "...and it's funny, because it's the stuff that boyfriends are supposed to do, not ex-husbands. But what do I know, really." He stopped, fingers gripping the edge of his empty glass with a focus that almost freaked Emma out. "Unless you don't want it to be your boyfriend's job anymore."

An unfamiliar sensation gripped the edges of Emma's mind. She felt too guilty to admit to herself that it was relief - relief that he had brought it up instead of herself, relief that this was going to end soon, caput, finito, fin, because she was not going to fight for it to go on.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, closing her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. She heard him sigh, leaning on the back on the sofa.

"I'm sorry too. I thought we had something good here."

She willed herself to look at him, and poured as much honesty as she could into her confession. "I thought so too for a while."

(And she had. For a while, she did. Walsh was a great guy: he was kind and attentive, and seemed to genuinely care for her and Henry.

He just wasn't the guy for her. And it had taken her a disastrous re-encounter with her ex-husband to admit it to herself.)

"So. This is the end, I guess." He splayed his hands before him, sounding resigned but, dare she say, with a bit of amusement. Maybe he had reached to the same conclusion as she a long time ago, but had clung to it just as mightily. One thing she and Walsh had always had in common: they weren't quitters.

"I guess it is," she said, slumping against the couch with a sigh. Walsh turned his head so they were staring right at each other, and with a final nod, he inched closer, pecked her on the cheek, and stood up. He picked up his coat, shrugging it on in a graceful movement, and walked out of the living room, pausing at the front door. He looked back at her.

"Have a good one, Emma," he said, and she smiled wistfully.

"You too, Walsh."

* * *

 

So, here's the thing: After the whole ordeal with Walsh, Emma was, understandably, upset.

What did Emma Swan do when she was upset?

Call Ruby and Elsa.

What did Ruby and Elsa suggest they do whenever one of them is upset?

Under the chant of "That's it, we're going out and you can't say no", Emma found herself being dragged around her place, picking up her phone, wallet, keys, beanie, scarf and coat all in one go and out of her door in record time after explaining to her friends what had happened the last two weeks: from her talk with David, her conversation and breakdown at Killian's, to Walsh breaking up with her the previous night.

To be fair, it was a lot of crap that she'd had to put up with lately. Way more than she was used to deal with.

There was too much she had had to put up with, God knew she did, and she hoped he'd give her a reprieve after a while: it was a slippery slope for her at that point, whether it was about her disastrous romantic life, her job or whatever.

Which brought us back to one Ruby Lucas and one Elsa Arendelle, roaming around her closet to pick out a lace white shirt and a pair of leather black pants. Giving the latest touches to her makeup, she walked out of the door with a heavy feeling in her chest that she couldn't really name yet. She was upset for how things had ended with Walsh, but she was also having a really hard time admitting that she was kind of relieved for not being the one to bring up the imminent breakup and 'we need to talk' conversation after being in denial for so long. And then there was this huge space that took up her feelings of not belonging, of not being safe, of staying alone for the rest of her life.

Things didn't just work out for her.

Maybe these things happened for a reason, she told herself. Maybe that was what had happened to her - it was all karma, luck, blown candles on your birthday and wishes made upon a shooting star. What did she know of that, anyway? Nothing. Nothing until way later in her life. Not until she found friends, until Ingrid adopted her and her new-found family took her in, until Elsa and Anna, Ingrid, David, Mary Margaret and Ruby, Graham. Until Henry.

Until Killian.

(But not until Walsh… wasn't that the biggest red flag she should have noticed by then?) (She was hopeless.) (And that's another thing that Mary Margaret had always insisted that was key in life, and that was something that Emma had never really cared for, ever.) (Yeah.)

She definitely needed booze.

Ruby wrapped a blue scarf around Emma's neck, fluffing it around and moving strands of hair this and that way as if she had been born to do so. "We're definitely going out," she announced, and Emma fought an eye roll.

"What's the point?" she grumbled as she followed her and Elsa down her hallway and into the elevator. After pressing the button, Ruby turned towards her and pinched her cheeks.

"So we can drown our woes in booze and cheap shots?"

"We can drink ourselves to death in your place."

Ruby scrunched up her nose as if the idea physically disgusted her. "That's lame. We're going out."

Elsa bumped her shoulder against hers encouragingly, which made her feel minimally better. They let themselves inside the elevator, and while Ruby checked her already flawless lipstick, Emma pointed out: "Just so you know, I'm caving in so you guys will act as my guardian angels."

Ruby snorted. "Please. Let Elsa be the angel, I'm the demon on your shoulder. I'm even wearing red," she added, pleased as punch as she signaled her blood red short. Emma and Elsa rolled their eyes.

"You _always_ wear red."

"Exactly my point."

Elsa interrupted them impatiently. "What is exactly a guardian angel's job, just to get it out of the way?"

"Rule number one: don't let me call Killian."

"Copy that," Ruby said.

Emma put up a second finger in the air. "Rule number two: don't let me text Killian."

"Right," Elsa nodded.

"Rule number three: don't let me have any kind of contact with Killian."

"This is getting boring."

"Rule number four: don't let me embarrass myself."

"A toughie," Elsa murmured, and Emma scowled briefly at her before finishing her list.

"Rule number five: we don't mention anything from tonight, ever, no matter what happens."

The elevator door opened and they let themselves out, and Elsa gave her a pitying look as she followed them into the street. "I fear we're gonna be busy angels tonight."

"I hear you," Ruby complied, and Emma acted as if she hadn't heard her while she searched for a cab to take them to a bar.

Spoiler alert: they broke all five rules.

* * *

 

When she woke up, the first thing she noticed was that these were most definitely not her sheets. The second thing she observed was that she wasn't even wearing her pajamas, but the shirt she had been the previous night and her panties.

(At least she was wearing her underwear, thank God for small mercies.)

The third thing –apart from a pang of panic stabbing her chest– was that this was not her apartment, and that she most definitely was going to kill Ruby and Elsa.

She didn't recognize the bedroom until she saw a stack of old pictures resting on a bedside table. There was an empty frame beside them, and Emma gingerly picked the one laying on top, almost jumping in surprise when she realized it was one of Henry, Killian and herself. It had been taken during Henry's birthday, her son sitting on Killian's lap as he helped her blow the candles on his cake while Emma hugged them both from behind, kissing the top of Henry's head.

Emma's heart beat mournfully in her chest. Her idiotic ex-husband was trying to pick one of several photographs of the three of them to frame it and put it beside his bed.

She fell down on the bed, making a strangled noise at the violent pounding inside her head. The noise must have alerted Killian, who knocked on the door and after her muffled 'come in', peeked behind the door.

"Morning," he said, cautiously making his way towards the bed. He sat at her feet, smiling down at her. "How's your head?"

"Throbbing like hell, but it was to be expected after chugging those stupid drinks Ruby ordered."

He chuckled softly. "Yeah, and hitting the doorframe wasn't really helpful either, I'm guessing."

Her eyes widened comically, and she gave him a crazed look. "What?"

"Here," he said and leaned over her, picking her hand in his and guiding her fingers to a bump in the side of her head that she had somehow missed until then. She whimpered softly as she touched the tender skin, and he withdrew his hand as soon as the sound left her lips. "You hit my door while you tried to race me to the apartment."

She cursed. What the hell? "What did actually happen last night?"

He scratched his stubble, as if weighing what to tell her and what leave out. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Emma tried to make sense of the flashes and brief memories she still retained from the previous night, frowning to herself. "Elsa teaching me a tongue-twister that I can't for the life of me remember right now. Every time I got it wrong, I had to drink." She gave him an unamused look. "It didn't end well."

He laughed softly, shaking his head but refusing to comment. "Well, I woke up to a handful of very interesting texts and voice messages."

"I'm going to murder them," she grumbled under her breath, but Killian heard her, looking surprised.

"Why? They weren't theirs."

Worst guardian angels _ever._ They'd pay for this, that was for sure. Not that she was going to tell Killian any of it. He had seen her at her lowest as it was. "On a scale of one to ten, how embarrassing were those calls and texts?"

The tip of his ears turned a bit pink, and she fought another embarrassed curse. He stuttered a bit, and finally told her: "At one point you started rambling about how you wanted to have chocolate fondue, then cracked up for two entire minutes hiccuping something about 'and we should fondue too'".

"Jesus," she spat, hiding her face behind her hands.

"I will spare you the details of the part where you claimed I was an elf and I should wear a flower crown because, and I quote, 'all elves wear flowers crowns. And braids'".

She kept her smile hidden behind her fingers. "They do though."

"I'll have to wear one, then." At the warmth in his voice, she finally let her hands fall to her lap, sighing loudly at the situation. She met his gaze, glad that he wasn't laughing at her or, worse, pitying looking at the mess she had made of herself.

"Then what?"

He shrugged. "I was worried, so I asked for your location and came to pick you up. I got you three a cab, but you insisted in coming with me. You were pretty determined about it, so I drove you here."

"And I hit my head."

"That you did." He smiled fondly. "You went out like a light after that."

She realized that he had done more than that. She had slept in his bed, whereas he surely had taken the couch for the night. He had even helped her out of her pants, as embarrassing as it was, but knew deep down that he had only done that because he hadn't forgotten about her long complains of sleeping in tight-fitting clothes so she'd be comfortable in her comatose state.

From the empty glass and ibuprofen on the bedside table, he must have given her one before falling asleep, which made her realize that the the horrible headache attacking her at the moment was probably less than she could have been suffering.

"Thanks. For taking care of me," she said, flitting her eyes in his direction as she played with the sheet bunching on her lap. He nodded, lips curling in a smile.

"My pleasure."

She suddenly frowned when a thought crossed her mind. "Did I by any chance say anything about why we were drinking ourselves silly?"

Killian appeared uncomfortable for a second, but shook his head. "The word 'monkey' was mentioned more than once. I connected the dots."

She flinched. So he had guessed what it was all about. "Sorry."

"It's okay Swan, I'll tell Walsh whatever you ask me to," he said, waving a hand in the air as if it wasn't a big matter.

"What?" She stared at him confusedly. Telling Walsh what exactly? She hadn't talked to him since their breakup.

"I gathered you had a fight with him and that's why you were upset?"

She flushed. Of course he hadn't heard about that. For all that he knew, she was still with Walsh, but it stung a bit that he'd think she'd just go, get drunk as all hell, drunk-dial him and then insist on accompanying him home. "We didn't just fight - we broke it off," she explained, and a heavy feeling crept upon the room as the words hung in the air and Killian absorbed them.

"Oh."

"I broke it off," she added, to further clear things up, just so there would be no misunderstandings and meeting his blue gaze, willing herself not to look away. She saw a myriad of thought swirling in them –doubt, regret, and above all, hope. It made it easier for her to keep her eyes trained on his, hands itching to lay the sheet beside her and close the space between them. She could see the same desire in his face, the same elation and expectation, and still neither of them moved, content to stay there, in an impasse that set them silent and in peace.

In the end, he broke it, standing from the bed. "I should get you home, love."

She nodded, and he gave her time to shower and do some damage control to her appearance. He finally accompanied her downstairs and insisted on driving her home, seeing as she hadn't brought her car the previous night. They rode in silence, the music from the mixtape that he still carried around and had owned for years lulling her to an almost dreamlike state.

When he pulled up beside her street, she curled her fingers around the hem of her shirt, steeling herself. "You could come up."

"I could," he said. She turned to look at him, the same expression he had worn earlier taking over his features.

"But maybe you shouldn't."

He nodded. "Then I shan't."

She bit her lip. She had no idea what she was doing: they had all but admitted that, with Walsh out of the picture, Killian's confession and apology for leaving, and the rather spectacular insistence with which Emma had wanted to see Killian in her inebriated state, he could guess she still had feelings for him and was quite partial to the idea of…

Of what exactly? Sex? Cuddling? The whole package?

"I need some time," she finally said, afraid of what she'd see when she looked at him. To her surprise, there was honest understanding in Killian's face as he nodded, as if she was not the only one needing some time to figure out what they wanted of each other.

(Even though a voice in her head told her it was rather easy: each other. That was what they wanted.)

"You definitely do," he said, and smiled. Before Emma could question herself, she leaned over the console, and briefly brushed her lips over his in a whisper of a kiss, full of promise and patience. Killian didn't move, but she could feel the sigh leaving his lips as she leaned back and left his car, entering her building with a small wave in his direction.

And if she rested against the closed door and let a smile split her face, then nobody but her doorman, Leroy, needed to know.

* * *

 

Henry and she were piling the rest of their dinner on the counter before putting the dirty dishes and glasses in the dishwasher when he asked out of nowhere, "When are you seeing Killian again?"

She was lucky the glass she had been holding was already stacked inside. She hadn't really told Henry what had transpired the other night after her massive binge-drinking night with the girls, but he had heard her explanation about her breakup with Walsh and had just hugged her, asking if she wanted to watch a movie and stay in all day eating junk food.

She loved her kid to pieces.

"I don't know - probably brunch on Friday. Why?" she asked nonchalantly.

He shrugged. "What are you going to say to him?"

"About what?" she frowned, picking the fork and spoon she had previously used to put it inside with the rest.

"About getting back together."

The fork and spoon cluttered to the floor. She didn't even spare a glance towards them, instead shaking her hands in the air at her son, face flushing in record time. "Woah, kid, slow down."

Henry gave her a knowing look that she absolutely dreaded as he knelt on the floor to pick the cutlery and put them in their place. "Don't you want to?"

Fuck.

Her kid was the best, indeed, but it was at times like this when she absolutely resented the fact that he saw too much. And yet, she couldn't for the life of her lie to him, so she leaned against the counter, an arm hugging her chest as her free hand itched towards her neck, scratching it nervously.

"I… I guess, but it's too soon."

There was a huff, and Henry gave her a disbelieving glance. "It's been _three years_ , it is everything but too soon."

"Since when did you become a smartmouth?"

Henry ignored her jab, as the mature thirteen year old that he was, unlike his mother, apparently. "Isn't that why you broke up with Walsh? Because you still love Killian?"

"Things weren't working with Walsh, that's why we broke up," she corrected him.

"And because you're in love with Killian," he amended, and Emma bit her lip, sighing loudly.

"Henry… it's not that simple."

He cocked his head to the side, staring at her, and stepped to her side to mimic her pose but sitting on the counter instead of leaning against it so he could rest his head on her shoulder. "Isn't it?" he asked softly.

She paused, thinking of her son's words, about everything that had happened in the last months. From Killian's return, the dissolution of her relationship with Walsh, the tentative attempts at friendship and rebuilding the trust that she and Killian had had before everything went to hell.

She thought about the last time she had seen Killian, not that long ago after that morning she had left his apartment, still hungover and looking a mess and with the echo of a soft kiss on her lips. He had come to the precinct after David and she had finally had a breakthrough on their case and found the gang they had been searching for so long. It had been a tough case, one of the most difficult ones she could remember going through, and she knew as soon as she saw Killian there that it had brought up painful memories for them all: the danger, the risk, the possibility of being offed in the search of so many criminals.

(All that blood. The gunshots and the cold seeping through her like a chill blanket. Killian's panicked voice.)

But, when he came in to congratulate them and offer his services to evaluate the members of the gang, she only saw relief and pride in his eyes. Whatever the memories, he had managed to get through it, just as her.

Things had changed.

Emma fought a curse. Damn them all. "Ugh," she grumbled, and Henry laughed.

.

When she got to brunch the next Friday, she wasn't that surprised to find Graham whistling when she got there, smiling like a goof. "Good morning, sunshine."

Great. She hadn't seen them in a couple of weeks, and of course asking Ruby and Elsa to 'please keep everything to ourselves from that night' had meant 'tell literary everybody in our group'. Even Santiago had put a hand on her shoulder when she had entered, reminding her that he always had that hangover remedy in case she needed it.

"I'm still mad at you two," she declared as she sat, jerking her chin at Ruby and Elsa, who were huddled together. Anna smiled gently in her direction, whereas Kristoff and David laughed along with Graham.

"You can't be mad at your guardian angels, it goes against the rules," Ruby said haughtily, and Emma glared at her.

"You really want to talk to me about rules? _Really_?"

Kristoff patted her arm. "Don't be so harsh on them, Emma. They even ordered fondue for you."

Everybody bursted laughing, and she plopped down on her chair with a groan. "I'm gonna kill you in your sleep."

"I'm so sorry I missed it. Jones' so lucky," Graham commented, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Where's he, either way?"

Emma noticed then that Killian's chair was empty. The sight of it made something inside her twinge. She had grown accustomed to him sitting there before she came, and the feeling that the space on his seat those three years haunted her.

David frowned, looking down at his watch. "I don't know. He is usually here earlier than me."

"Has somebody called him?" Anna asked, and Kristoff shrugged, searching through his phone's texts.

"He didn't answer my text earlier."

That haunted feeling that had somehow crept over her settled somewhere inside her, and she caught her breath.

"He may be busy," David commented, and before Emma could suggest something else to contact him, even facing endless jokes from her friends, he had picked up his menu and flipped it open, as if he needed it to know what he'd ask. "Should we order? I'm starving."

Everybody agreed, and before she knew it, Santiago was settling dishes around the table and conversation resumed, with stories about Kristoff and Anna's honeymoon shared and jabs at Emma, Ruby and Elsa's drunken escapade thrown around.

Nobody noticed when she picked her phone under the table and subtly sent a text to Killian, reading _you'd better have a good explanation to miss this. santiago's asking after your sorry ass_

He didn't answer.

She hoped to find him at the precinct, but he didn't show up either, and it shouldn't have freaked her out that much considering he didn't really have to come in today. But still, knowing Killian it was weird of him not to text his apologies for being late or even try to make sure he made it no matter whatever had happened to him.

She spent the entire morning restless, checking her phone every three minutes, to the point that Victor had to ask her if she was feeling alright and she made up some lame excuse about Henry being under the weather.

At lunch time, she gave up and ran out of the precinct without giving any explanation to David or her team, instead jumping into her bug and driving like her life depended on it to Killian's place. She knew she was being irrational and there could be a hundred explanations of Killian's radio silence: his phone had been stolen and he had gone to report it to the police, he had fallen asleep and had it silenced, he was dead and lying in a ditch… you name it.

And yet, the only thing crossing through her brain was something along the lines of 'not again'.

She made it to his building in record time, and she only slowed down her pace to let an elderly woman slip away from the elevator in order not to run into her. But as soon as she reached his door, all bets were off: she beat down on it like a madwoman, knocking relentlessly and failing at hide her panic.

She almost passed out right there in the hallway when Killian opened it.

He stared at her, baffled. She must have been a sight alright. "Emma? What are you doing here?"

She wasn't proud of her greeting.

"You fucking asshole."

He stepped back inside his apartment, staring at her warily. "What?"

She pushed past him inside, violently kicking the door behind her and jabbing her finger in his chest as she crowed him against the wall. "Don't you _ever_ do that again."

His confusion morphed into worry, and he gripped her upper arms, eyes widening with concern. "Emma, what's wrong?"

She startled herself as she fought a panicked shriek, voice almost breaking as she screamed at him. "Why didn't you pick up your phone? Why weren't you at brunch? Where were you?"

The fingers clasped around her arms brushed over her skin, loosening their tight grip as he answered. "My battery died and I've been here the whole time. What's this about?"

The tears she had fought against since she realized he wasn't at brunch fell helplessly down her cheeks then, and she did nothing to try to keep them at bay or hide them, she just closed her eyes and let her forehead touch the hollow of her neck as sobs wracked over her.

"Emma, love..."

"I thought you left," she croaked. "You were supposed to be there, and you weren't, and I - I thought you left me again."

It was easier to talk to the skin of his neck, to the pale freckle at the base of his throat and not to his face, to his eyes, to his understanding gaze. Before she knew it, his arms had wrapped around her, and she let herself hold him closer to her, bunching the front of his shirt in his hand as if that would stop him from trying to go. "Emma, I'm never leaving you again. I'm gonna stay right here, as long as you want me."

She sniffled, memories of the Emma of three years ago swimming before her eyes. The shell that Killian's absence had made of her. "You broke your promise once."

"And I'm never making that mistake again." He felt him pulling her back, and his finger tapped her chin up until she could meet his eyes. "Living without you isn't worth it, Swan. I'm afraid you're stuck with me, if you want to keep me around." More runaway tears escaped the corner of her eyes, and he wiped them away tenderly with the pad of his thumb. His forehead tipped against hers, and she could see the corner of his lips curling in a small grin. "Do you want to know why I didn't show up to brunch?"

She didn't trust herself to make a sound, so she just nodded.

Some kind of stifled sound escaped his lips. "I didn't want to tell you, but I - I never stopped wearing my ring," he admitted, and he sounded so embarrassed that she had to huff a laugh, the memory of finding it that day making her smile.

"I know. I saw it in the bathroom when you stayed at home the night of the wedding."

He shook his head, laughing along with her. "As perceptive as always." He inhaled slowly, as if bracing himself. "Anyway, I took it off last night while I was doing some cleaning and I can't find it anywhere. And I know it sounds stupid, but I can't function if I'm not wearing it, it's like breaking that promise all over again..."

She didn't allow him to say anymore, choosing to let her arms snake around him, one slinging over his neck and the other around his waist. He hugged her to him, laughing softly against her hair, a relieved noise reverberating against the shell of her ear as he breathed in and out slowly, savoring the feeling of having her in his arms again.

She let the hand behind his back roam, and bit back a laugh when her hand purposely searched the back pocket of his jeans and he jumped slightly, taken aback by the sudden intrusion. She smiled against his shoulder, memories of the day he had proposed and so many others where he had been looking for whatever it was he couldn't find and she had had to go looking for it alongside him to help.

Her grin widened when her fingers touched cold metal.

Holding out the ring for him in between her thumb and index finger, she pulled back to show it to him, cocking an eyebrow and not withholding the amusement on her face. "You're a fucking idiot," she declared, and he just grinned, smile so wide it actually hurt her to look at. He shook his head in disbelief, picking it up from her fingers and slowly slipping it on his ring one.

"I really am."

As if she couldn't really stay away from him now that she had been pressed against his body, she laced her fingers behind his neck, playing with the hair at its back. "You're a mess. How you've made it three years without me is a mystery."

"You're so right. What do you plan to do about it?" he said, nose grazing hers teasingly and eyes twinkling in the dim corner of his room.

She pretended to roll her eyes. "Ugh. I guess I'll take you home with me."

"Fine," she stated, shrugging.

She mimicked him. "Fine."

And before he could say another thing, she kissed him then. She pulled him closer to her if it were possible, the hands at the back of his head pushing him down so she could reach his lips, kissing him like there was nothing else she'd rather be doing.

(There wasn't, except maybe kissing him with noticeably less clothes on.)

His lips melted against hers, salty, moist and hot, and the heady sensation coursing through her almost makes her stumble, and the back of her head hits the wall she had been leaning on. They both sniggered, but it was short-lived for Emma as Killian's lips started down the curve of her neck, following to her chest and the tops of her breasts, nosing at the strap of her bra.

Things were, as they said, escalating quickly, and she couldn't care less.

"Can we at least christen the consult?" he murmured as he dragged his lips along the shell of her ear. She growled under her breath.

"Shut up."

"Is that a yes?" he said as he pulled away, piercing eyes full of dark desire and the very same glinting amusement that had made her fall for him all those years ago.

And, because it was what every ex-husband/boyfriend?/husband once more/whatever wanted to hear, she huffed, "Ugh. Fine."


End file.
